You are not a creature made for sunny meadows, writing sonnets to multi-hued flowers and lying in repose in the soft spring grasses. You are made for the dappled shadow of the forest, where the beauty is found in the variegation of dark browns and greens, where a single, intense burst of color is more vibrant than any sun-blessed wildflower.
You are made to lie down on a bed of thick mosses, not in some bright field where shallow love might stumble unwittingly upon you, but in the recesses of the wood, deep in the heart of the ancient forest where most know better than to tread, and of those who brave it anyway, few would survive to ever find you.
For the love that finds those who live in the sun could not withstand the tempests of your heart. The love that plucks a wildflower and offers it with happy song could not kneel with you in the mire, pluck your hand from its living grave all covered in moss, and withstand the ice of your touch while humming a requiem for the living.
The love that fluorishes in sunlight could not understand that you will never leave the wood. That you do not wish to, that this is your home, protected by the shelter of towering trees, ensconced within the things that thrive in the cool and the dark.
The love that lives in the sun would see you and think you a beautiful thing found in an ugly place and seek to take you from it, not knowing, not understanding, that if they succeeded in uprooting you, the new ground they sought to plant you in would wither your roots by the day.
The love that finds you in the shadows understands the care you need, and that the care you need is not their care. They are companionship, yes. They are comfort. But they are not your lifeblood nor your sustenance. They are your want but not your reason, your desire but not your cure.
Because you are not a wound that love can heal.