Twisting, turning, constant: they made her Joan of Arc with her silver sword aloft, they made her the virgin mother who clutches the son close. Mary, Mary, have you seen the darkest side of your reflection? Scarred cheeks and curves for days, pride and aggression and a heart pierced with knives. The black pigs squeal and burn for her, the rum trickles down long limbs, and the children clutch at her skirts. Her interest in men is fleeting, but her love of women in unending, each of them offering her a glimpse of something new. I’ll kill for you, is what she whispers against the skin of her beautiful lovers. I’ll tear apart the man who lays a hand on you.