When a woman first loves, she doesn’t seek an adventure, she seeks connection.

She craves the warmth of skin upon skin, not for thrill, but for meaning.

In that first union, time pauses. There is no performance, no mask, no transaction, only two souls dissolving into each other, whispering love through touch.

That is love in its purest form; unrushed, undesigned, and utterly human.

But love, when lost, the heart hardens…

and with every lost love, the heart hardens more

The tenderness that once bloomed freely now hides behind pleasure’s disguise.

Touch becomes a currency, and desire becomes a performance of power.
sex becomes for attention

The man is no longer chosen for his soul, but for his promise of validation, his beauty, his danger, his gifts.

And the more forbidden the fruit, the sweeter the illusion.

She travels miles for a body that cannot touch her spirit..

Again and again, she gives, but nothing fills the hollow.

Sex becomes her language of visibility, her silent scream against the ghost of love.

It is no longer creation, it is consumption.

And in that cycle, a ritual of numbness is born.

How, then, can she love again?

How can she surrender to the sacred when she has worshipped at the altar of pleasure too long?

She cannot—not until her heart learns that vulnerability is not weakness,

that real love is not found in hunger, but in peace.