There Was Nothing Wrong With Her

I was not a priest,
but I paced outside her bedroom with Mother Mary in my hands and God’s word in my heart.
She scratched and clawed at the walls,
damning the door with her hurt, hateful screeching,
and all I wanted to do was heal the girl.
My hands burned, apprehensive and anxious,
and she howled,
pleading for relief as I pushed the door open,
watching her collapse to the floor,
her curls, asunder,
her cries, hysterical.
She spoke in tempting tongues,
telling me my fate,
tearing at my soul,
and as I looked upon the strange child,
destroyed by the thought of a demon deep inside her,
I knew that she was never possessed.