Tequila and Tea

She offers love like a sanctuary—not as a performance, not as a prize to be earned, but as a soft place to land. A warm light left on in the storm. A quiet invitation back to yourself.

And yet.

Too often, the world mistakes this kind of love for weakness. Misreads her softness as something to conquer. Tries to test her heart instead of tending to it.

Some men say they want love, but what they really crave is control.
When they are handed something real, something heart-centered, something that asks them to be present—they flinch.
They say it’s “too much,” but what they mean is: they’re not ready.

So they choose the woman who treats them with less tenderness.
The one who doesn’t see them so clearly.
The one who won’t hold their hand through the shadows, because she doesn’t notice they’re even in one.

Because a heart-centered woman reflects the parts of them still unhealed.
And rather than meet her in the mirror, they walk away.

But her love is not a test.
It is a temple.
And not every soul is ready to kneel.

She has kissed the wounds of others while her own bled silently. She has been the safe place for men who didn’t know how to stay safe within themselves. She has softened where she should have been met. She has waited in silence for someone who could see the sacred in her stillness.

This time, she isn’t asking for fireworks.
She’s asking for presence.
For reverence.
For someone whose hands don’t tremble at the thought of holding something real.

She offers love like a sanctuary—may she be met by one who honors her light.

Not because she needs saving.
But because she finally knows her own worth.
And sanctuary, darling, doesn’t open its doors for just anyone.