They killed it.
And ever afterwards
There was something dead inside of her,
A failure of feeling.
She longed for a time
When food would taste again,
The days no longer be joyless, nor the nights interminable.
She longed to escape from this misery,
Where time itself was sick, and the years were extra,
Where daffodils and all the emblems of spring
Were just the pale remembrances of her abortive dreams.