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.