The Six Deaths of the Saint

I wonder what the songs will say about the Devil now that she is covered in the blood of her own God.

And you found you did not mind being a devil, so long as you were his.

He doesn’t move or speak, but he doesn’t need to. I know his desires by the pace of his breath and the tilt of his shoulders, by the shape of his jaw and the heat of his gaze. I know him, and in knowing him I love him, and in loving him I cannot do as he wishes.

That I have lived and killed and lived again in the name of a man who does not deserve it because I wanted so badly to be beloved. But only one person in all my lives has ever loved me, and he does not wear a crown.

I would rather love a coward than mourn a legend.

...feeling lonelier than I’ve felt since I was a girl, since before my Saint came to me. But in the end, there was no saint, just a lonely girl telling secrets to herself in a dark mirror.

You saw yourself as an unholy triptych, three into one, one into three: she the girl, you the Devil, and I the Saint. And you understood, finally, that there had never truly been a she or a you but only a terrible, lonely I.