Purge

When it entered her the demon blew her breath back and her hair settled like the dust from a mushroom cloud and in wisps more perfect than the carefully drawn trails of tears cut into the dirt of her wandering. It rearranged each wavy lock until it sang snow white to make the village girls jealous, eye knives to pierce their own hearts with huntsman style. To go ghost to offer their blood in glass boxes at her feet in lamentation of their own feminine failure, most important gifts slit and bled scarlet reclining on crimson velvet uglier than each single eyelash telling a fairytale, every flaw whispering superior, somehow stinging sharper than perfection, exactly right crooked and of planned disproportion that would make the departed still lacrimal even after passing over. This now atomically correct queen without a feature or a sideways glance out of place forgetting her prayers rapidly, smearing her family's faces and scrawling new strange devotion upside down in ash on the insides of her eyelids, love obliterated in favor of fresh fervor, willingness to host the definitely unholy and offer herself as food, as warmth, as shelter for a blowing storm that kicks lightning now that she catches. Throws into the wood to weave and burn in symbols repeating her new name singed to infinity, trees leaning in lovesick and offering.