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Still, she was writing
  as they twisted her,
  pulling out long filaments of self.
    (This won't hurt — they promised.)
    (It was a necessary procedure.)
Thinking, she was dreaming
  as they molded her, bending bones,
  tearing off the veils that hid her heart.
    (You know you want this — they swore.)
    (Because I want this too.)
And she was dreaming, when he came to her, warm, and filled her.
She was dreaming,
  struggling against his blank,
  as she made bruises on her heart and scratched her brain.
They let her wake when they were done,
  see the wreck that they have made,
  the scars, the stubs,
  and feel the sharp pain.
Already crying, when he whispered, "yes, I love you",
  already dreaming, she believed.
I love you —
  she screamed to the empty hills.