[The first line is from No Second Troy by W. B. Yeats.]
Why, what could she have done, being what she is?
How could she have been any different?
Could she have shoved her soul into a coffin to bury, never to revive or reveal her most naked self?
Could she have carved out of her bones a new structure, a more suitable shape to fit the frame they used to lure with such seduction, such malice?
Could she have peeled off her skin and replaced it with one less transparent, less prone to boiling under the heat they claimed would cleanse her?
What could she have done in such circumstances, unable to be what they wanted,
other than wipe the dirt off the box she lay inside and,
with the skin still sensitive to the warmth of touch,
wrap the bones they were prepared to break?
Why, what could she have done, aside from learning to live with what she unearthed,
aside from choosing to be exactly what she is?