Adrienne's Face

There she lays
the one person I was convinced
I couldn’t live without.
Her pale, now bruised skin covers her gaunt face,
all of which tell the story of how this soul
wound up here, at her own funeral.

Her parent’s thank me for coming to their daughter, Adrienne’s funeral.
At her casket, her silent voice told me her fatal story as she laid
in her eternal bed, the final resting place of her exhausted soul.
I hear guests whisper that it was the drugs that killed you, but I’m convinced
it was him, your body tells the story of the abuse, the bruises on your face.
Who would have thought your worst enemy was the man you swore you couldn’t live without?

What am I supposed to tell old friends that ask about you? Without
tears and hostility, I’m going to have to ask, “Well, didn’t you hear about her funeral?”
Oh, Adrienne how could he do this to your beautiful face?
I hope he feels intense remorse and grief as he lays
on that hard mattress, in that 6 by 6 cell, trying to convince
God that he doesn’t deserve to burn in hell for the deeds of his soul.

I see that large mark on your face. Your mom says it’s from the sole
of his boot that delivered the final blow leaving your parents without
their baby girl. The irony is that you died in an attempt to convince
that monster to let you keep your unborn baby girl, the result bringing your funeral.
The miscarried baby, a 24 week old fetus is going to be buried with you, she will lay
next to you for eternity. I hear a man whisper, “Did you see her poor face?”

The man is right. It doesn’t even look like you. Oh, Adrienne if you could see your face
you’d be ashamed to admit that you’re a victim, and that people believe a man is the sole
origin of your dismay. But, I know you died of a broken heart as you watched your baby lay
on the floor lifeless, without movement, without sound, leaving you without
the will to fight back and live on. Your surrender brought us to today’s funeral.
Strangers tell me, “I’m sorry for your loss,” but I’m not convinced.

Here I stand, staring at your brutalized face trying to convince
myself that God has a reason for the destruction of your once beautiful face.
I have to admit I’m angry. Angry that the last time I get to see you is here, at your funeral.
I can’t pull my eyes away from your battered face. I know a body is just the shell of a soul.
I can’t take comfort in that because it’s your smile I’m not going to be able to live without.
I want you to meet my best friend Adrienne, plot 86 in section 14, where she lays.

As I stare at you laid out in this casket I’m convinced
that a day won’t pass by without me imagining your face,
a face that was unrecognizable today, even at your funeral.