She was ugly but he made her feel like she had it all wrong :—
When she complained about her dark spots, he would whisper into her funny-shaped ear, “that’s what made me spot you,” and when she complained about how fat she was he said, “I’m happy I gained you.”
He called her thick untidy ***** hair the ‘fortress of his love’ and her bushy eyebrows the ‘blanket for his cold soul.’
He told her her stretch-marks were the waves on the body of her sea and he would surf them with his fingers.  
Because her nose was big, he would tell her, “you take my breath away,” and when she looked into the mirror and saw the dark circles around her eyes he would always tell her about how he would love to travel the universe of her soul cause they were dark holes.
It was odd that everything she hated about herself he loved ever-so deeply — She was ugly but he made her feel like she had it all wrong.

Why does it pour? Why does the rain fall?
Why does it shine? Why does the sun glow?
Why does it blow? Where does the wind go?
Why do they grow? What are all these plants for?

We are gathered here today, paying our last respects to giving a **** what people say or think about us.

As we lower all sense of shame for who we truly are into the ground we await the day when our personalities decompose into what they were meant to be. We pray that the blueprint of our essence may be received in the glory of freedom.

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust and us to us.

We were looked down upon and called ‘black sheep’ or ‘lost souls’ because we perceived life through a liberated lens but that doesn’t matter now cause we are in a better place: because we are dead, we can’t be chained in prisons of their expectations anymore. We can’t be told how to live our lives anymore.

As death frees the spirit, we free spirits declare ourselves, as of this death, truly free.

They should meet at the right time in the right place. It’s supposed to be perfect, right? Guy meets girl —guy says “hey” —girl says “hey” back and girl finds herself  chuckling at he’s tasteless jokes and gets fascinated by his basic flexes. Blood flows to her cheeks turning them red as  the nakedness of his words of flattery ***** them. Each new day, they walk into the sunset of time and get tickled by the hourly breeze. The directions into each other’s hearts shouldn’t be hard to follow. One right, another right after the first right —skip the first right and take the second right after that right, right? It’s supposed to make sense right? She’s supposed to be the right girl and he’s supposed to be the right guy left for her, right? She’s the missing piece of the puzzle of his heart; the blueprint of his eternity. They should blend right; the smoothy of their bond bursts with the taste of their liquid love salad. They know each other; They understand each other. They say the right words and do the right deeds. They never argue or fight; they never fall short of each other cause they are the right height. I’m right, right?

I always thought screams were loud. Now that I understand life a little better, I see that screams are sometimes quieter than the faintest sounds.

Passive aggressive comments; Status updates; Attention seeking; Longings made known; innocent projections of pain; long searches without finding — all forms of screams that often go unheard.

You’re screaming for help and you don’t know it; sinking in life and thinking you’re just going about your normal daily business but because I understand life a little better, I see that your screams are quieter than the faintest sounds. With every passive aggressive comment, ever status update, every attention-seeking stunt, every longing made known, every projection of pain and every search without finding, you are screaming. Ignorantly hoping that someone who understands life could hear.

Unlike Adam, I only declared her the bone of my bone when my bones grazed through the edges of hers; Flesh of my flesh when my flesh reaped through the flesh of her once-beautiful skin.

She is Bruised for my iniquities. The artist in me made her back a mosaic of the anger I whipped into the core of her being. I am an artist of pain. Scarring every figment of her body and mind from the crown of her head to the foot of her soul and spirit just for a taste of her screams. Just for the pleasure of smiting droplets of blood out of her fragile body.

My princess; My punching bag.

By her stripes, I am healed. So each stripe quenches the thirst of my soul that pants for a drink of her ****** body that screams in anguish; for the remission of my sins, she is my Jesus.

Her gashing blood is the evidence I need; just enough a reminder to me that her heart pumps and repeats its beat in sync with the rhythm of the beat of my toxic masculinity to sustain the cravings of my angry heart; the dance of my spiritual fists.

I love her. I loved her then and I love her now. It was love at first fight.