Rejections enshrined Her periphery. They were like gravestones on the outskirts of a medieval countryside–funeral monuments that told of the many deaths of an anticipated future lived by Her side.
She had grown accustomed to saying no, for Her suitors were buried underground–out of sight, out of pussy. Hers was Hers, and ONLY Hers to enjoy, but it never stopped the next poor sap from dreaming–from ultimately plunging the self-inflicted dagger into his anemic heart.
So if you see Her, tell Her I still owe Her the blade She lent me.