Everyone carries their Lover inside them— the part that aches to be touched, seen, known all the way down to the bones. She is radiant, magnetic, a flame that others orbit without knowing why. But the Lover is not just satin sheets and candlelight. She is hunger incarnate. She can heal with a kiss, and she can destroy with the same lips.
My own Lover woke up young, tasting sweetness and pain in the same breath. Once she learned her power, she couldn’t unlearn it. She discovered she could take whatever she wanted: pleasure, attention, intimacy... and she did. She was discerning enough never to fake it, bold enough to demand her own joy. But she was also reckless, sharp-edged, wielding her body like a weapon.
The truth is ugly. I left bruises on hearts. I stepped across vows, ranks, and boundaries. I knew my pull, and sometimes I used it without mercy. I said I was feeding myself with connection, told myself I 'loved' men... but often I was only feeding my shadow; proving I could have what I wanted, when I wanted it, even if it left others hollow.
That’s the Femme Fatale side of the Lover. She doesn’t just receive love, she consumes it. She seduces not to nurture, but to devour. And I wore that mask. I let her walk into homes she had no business in. I let her feast on men who weren’t mine to hold. I mistook conquest for communion, and I paid for it in shame.
But here’s the other truth: beneath all that blood and smoke, she was starving. I hadn’t given her what she needed, so she went searching everywhere else. Every affair, every fleeting passion, every night that ended in someone else’s bed was really just her kneeling inside me, begging to be fed.
I used to want to keep her locked away — too dangerous, too destructive. But when her intentions are pure she’s the softest part of me, the most radiant, the one who bled the most to keep me alive. And now I see that denying her only makes her hungrier; more reckless.
So I forgave her. Not because she earned it, but because I chose it. Because it was me who sent her out into the world with empty hands to beg from strangers because I wouldn't set her at my table. She's mine, and she deserves nourishment, not exile. I told her I see her, that I absolve her, that her brightly shining light (the one that drew them all to her) is safe with me now.
The Lover, in her light, doesn’t consume — she communes. She doesn’t wreck — she creates. When fed with honesty and tenderness, she doesn’t beg or steal; she glows. She becomes the most beautiful part of us, the part that makes intimacy holy.
Beloveds, if you have a Lover inside you (and you do) feed her yourself. Don’t starve her into recklessness. Don’t exile her into shame. Hold her chin. Wash her bloody hands. Tell her she’s yours. And adorn her with reminders of her sovereignty. Because Beloved, the WHOLE of you is worth loving, even in shadow.
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