“She is not someone you understand. She is
someone you watch, someone you use, someone you mourn. She is made for love but
love is not made for her. Everything about her runs deeper than in you; her
madness is truer, her mind brighter and better broken, and her anguish is in
her bones, not her blood. You will never forgive her for dying, but she will
always be dead forever, and your horror means nothing to her anymore. That, more
than anything is why you still dream about her and her flowers thrown like
curses. She has made herself no longer yours to dream of, choking on her water,
crawling through her weeds, living beneath the world; her body inviolate and
violable no more, there in her resting place where no man rules.”
