In the cradle of ancient forests, where rivers sang lullabies to the moon, there lived a woman named Nature. Her hair was woven from vines and starlight, her eyes the shifting greens of leaves in wind. She was every season in one breath—gentle spring, fierce summer, mournful autumn, and the silent white of winter’s blade.
A man came to her, barefoot and lovesick, carrying a heart like an open wound. “I will worship you,” he vowed, kneeling in the moss. “I will build you gardens, name every flower after your smile.” Nature smiled back, soft as dawn, and let him in. She let him taste the honey of her rivers, sleep beneath the shelter of her boughs, feel the pulse of her earth beneath his skin.
But love is wicked.
One morning he woke to find her arms turned to brambles, tearing at his flesh. The rivers he drank from now ran bitter with salt. The flowers he named withered at his touch. “Why?” he cried, bloodied and broken. She stood over him, no longer gentle—her eyes now stormclouds, her voice the howl of winter gales. “I gave you everything,” she said. “But everything was never enough for you.”
He begged, he bargained, he tried to tame her. He cut down her trees to build walls against her rage. He dammed her rivers to control her flow. Each act only fed her fury. The more he clung, the crueler she became—until the land itself rose up, roots coiling like serpents, winds screaming his name in accusation.
In the end, he lay alone in a desert of his own making, skin cracked like dry earth, whispering to the empty sky. Nature watched from afar, her face unreadable. She did not mourn him. She did not forgive.
For she is woman.
And love—her love—is wicked.
It gives life.
It takes it back.
And it never, ever apologizes.