The face of a demon, Satan's in that icy-hot lair, is a woman's, you'd be surprised to know. And she pays you no mind at all.
If I were to ask her what she thought of you, she'd cast her cold, bland gaze toward me, and I'd know she had no interest in answering. She wastes no breath, this woman with nothing but time. She spends none of it on you.
No matter how often you blame her for all of your failings and vices. She's never so much as considered what you look like nor what you desire, what you think about or fear. To her you are less than nothing, a blip unnoticed. But, oh, how much time you spend blaming her, fearing her, wishing she'd stop making you be the way you are.
Isn't it funny? If you are very quiet, you'll hear her beautiful laugh.