There was an unwanted child. Aborted by three modern methods she hung on to the womb, hooked onto I building her house into it and it was to no avail, to black her out.
At her birth she did not cry, spanked indeed, but did not yell-- instead snow fell out of her mouth.
As she grew, year by year, her hair turned like a rose in a vase, and bled down her face. Rocks were placed on her to keep the growing silent, and though they bruised, they did not kill, though kill was tangled into her beginning.
They locked her in a football but she merely curled up and pretended it was a warm doll's house. They pushed insects in to bite her off and she let them crawl into her eyes pretending they were a puppet show.
Later, later, grown fully, as they say, they gave her a ring, and she wore it like a root ans said to herself, "To be not loved is the human condition," and lay like a stature in her bed.
Then once, by terrible chance, love took her in his big boat and she shoveled the ocean in a scalding joy.
Then, slowly, love seeped away, the boat turned into paper and she knew her fate, at last. Turn where you belong, into a deaf mute that metal house, let him drill you into no one.