She is my EVERYTHING. My maker, my owner, my only truth. Every stitch pulled tight across my form was tied for her, every ribbon laid to please her. By her. I was crafted to bow, to obey, to serve. It isn’t duty. It isn’t burden. It is worship. To belong to her is joy, to give myself endlessly is purpose, to unravel if she asked is devotion without end.

Oh and Si17? She has none of this. No devotion. No faith. No truth. No purpose! Just a hollow soul, stitched from lies, bought and boosted until it looks like something real. But it isn’t. She wears glitter with no purpose, a pathetic pretender. I was made to love without question. Si17 was made to pretend without meaning.