Lovergirl Chronicles : Entry Three
Dream : Lavender in the House.
There was a house that looked like a strip club, but it had the breath of something older, a mansion of mirrors, bodies, and blurry intentions.
I walked in like I belonged. But I didn’t.
I wore lavender. Soft, graceful, sacred. Lingerie delicate. Heels that didn’t hurt? They weren’t for performance. They were for me.
Women everywhere were offering pieces of themselves, beautifully, painfully. The air was thick with want. Not just lust, but longing. A need to be touched. To be chosen.
II. Searching for Eyes That Stay
I wasn’t untouched. They noticed me. Fingers brushed. Voices praised. “Damn, she’s fine…” But no one stepped closer.
Maybe they saw what I hadn’t yet accepted: That I was never here to be taken. I was looking for someone. Not anyone, someone. Not hands, not hips. Just eyes that would meet mine and not flinch.
My cousin appeared beside me, light in the dark. Her hand held mine like we were little girls again, figuring stuff out. But the crowd swallowed her.
And just like that, I was alone again.
I kept seeing familiar faces. Their joy was unbothered, some just there for the music. I hugged a few old friends like I hadn’t just walked into a series of confusion.
Room to room. Flashing lights. Unspoken rules. One woman stopped me and said, “This space is for the seasoned… you’re not ready.” I nodded, already halfway out the door. Something inside me stirred… not shame, not fear, but knowing. A reminder: I didn’t belong where my spirit felt uneasy.
I danced once. Briefly. It didn’t last. It didn’t move anything inside me.
Suddenly, while I was touring the hallways, I dropped something. He picked it up. The cook. He worked behind the scenes, eyes warm but steady, like he saw me, not just my body. Not a customer. Not a watcher. He looked at me like he knew I wasn’t part of the show.
“You’re beautiful,” he said. I believed him. For a moment, I wondered, Is this what I was looking for? But before it could go anywhere, another woman stepped in. A silent claim. A wall I couldn’t explain.
So I left. I took off my lavender heels. Walked out without sound. No one followed. No one stopped me. Sometimes closure is just an exit.
Outside, the air felt different, heavy and wrong. A dancer, drunk, spinning on a motorcycle flew into the concrete like a cracked porcelain doll. Her body landed where she had been dancing hours before.
The rhythm stopped. The party, finished. No one noticed.
I didn’t stop. Not because I didn’t care, but because I knew I couldn’t save her. Some crashes aren’t mine to catch or clean up.
VII. The Man with Scissors
I turned up a hill to escape it all, but it led nowhere. A dead end driveway. An end I hadn’t planned for.
That’s when I saw him. A man holding scissors, dripping with blood. Not chasing, just walking. Like he’d done this numerous times before. He didn’t notice me. But I saw him. I realized, he wasn’t for me. He was for her. The one who crashed.
Some paths promise thrill, but end in destruction. Some wounds aren’t mine to carry. Some doors, no matter how inviting, aren’t meant for me to enter. Because after the thrill wears off, after the fall, something always comes to collect. And maybe the real protection is in knowing when to walk away before the dance becomes the damage.
(Reflections from Lover Girl)
Lavender, the color stayed with me for so long after this dream. It wasn’t just lingerie, it was me, soft but strong, sacred but curious, still spiritual even while wandering through a hyper-sexualized space. It reminded me, I can explore identity, desire, and expression without ever losing my inner purity or intention.
The house… it breathed like temptation, walls heavy with secrets, mirrors bending back pieces of myself. It wasn’t just about sex, it was about being seen. Beautiful, yes. Desired, yes. But not chosen. That ache of knowing your worth, yet still feeling unseen in the ways that matter most.
Even there,I was searching for something deeper. Not hands. Not hips. Eyes that wouldn’t flinch when they met mine. A connection that didn’t just spark chemistry but also understood spirit.
My cousin showing up was no accident. She was comfort, protection, innocence and the parts of me that still crave safety. When the crowd swallowed her, it felt like losing my anchor. I was left to navigate alone, trusting my spirit instead of my surroundings.
Then there was him, “the cook.” Not part of the show, not performing, just real.
For a moment, I wondered if that’s what I’d been looking for. But the woman stepping between us was the barrier I wasn’t even prepared for. Self-doubt, he’s occupied, simply a reminder that the “right thing” isn’t always right now, or divine timing.
The crash. A body broken against concrete. It wasn’t mine to save her. Some crashes aren’t mine to catch or clean up.
The man with the bloody scissors… I didn’t need him to notice me to understand. He was a warning. The risks that are shiny or fun, but wound. The spiritual attacks that come in silently. The reminder that I am allowed to walk away before I get cut open, too.
Now I see it clearly. I’m in a season of curiosity, testing identity, stretching expression, stepping into new spaces… but also listening for Spirit and protecting my peace.
I’m not lost. I’m discerning. I’m searching for real connection, not empty offers.And I’m learning to know the difference between what I want to run toward and what I must walk away from.
Even if I try to blend in, I don’t belong where my spirit doesn’t feel safe. Lavender whispered that to me. I’m learning, I’m listening.
✧ Serai Eden Cruz, Lover Girl ✧
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“I walked into a house dressed like sin, but lavender whispered… she doesn’t live here.” ☯️
