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 anguish is in her bones, not her blood. you will never forgive her for dying but she will be dead, and your horror means nothing to her anymore, and that more than anything is why you still dream about her. She has made herself no longer yours to dream of, choking on her water, crawling through her weeds, her body inviolate and violable no more, there in her resting place where no man rules.