she is, at once; the image of the divine and the blueprint for the uncorrupted universe, and she is nothing if not stylish. in her veins run light that spans her like baroque miracles that trip and dance across the dreams of infant constellations that set her alight from within. the angels built her from scratch, stitching into place her incandescent flesh and lovingly gilding her golden gated breastplate. when her tears fall they shatter into galaxies. she feeds her angels with bread from her basket that never runs out, tossing the crumbs and laughing like a supernova when they circle and dive for the pieces. eternity is her catwalk, as she has existed from the very beginning she will be waiting for the holy at the very end. in her bones run the scaffoldings of morality and of narrative rationality that she is told will calcify the universe she must prepare herself to birth.
but from her divine structure bursts forth the chaos, and suddenly her body is a warzone - cleft and rifted and bloodied with rebellion. the fabric of her pristine robes rend and stain; and when her angels fall, they crack open her very ribs and a vast ocean of her blood flows and coalesces and rises into a girl who looks up and blows her a kiss.
she heals after, of course; but her skin is scarred, and in her heart there is a wound that never truly closes.
and then: it is time. the angels, sorrowful but ever dutiful; assist her through her labour as she delivers the universe to fill the waiting abyss.
her role, then; is to seduce and to damn humanity and all of eternity’s creation into pledging their souls in her name; desperately scrabbling from the inferno of her sister’s blistering grasps. but she works, relentlessly, to be perfected; for the end of it all - when the apocalypse will be her renaissance.