Rosa Lovato would’ve wanted more flowers. Live music. A choir belting out worship songs. Her ghost would’ve reveled in loud, unashamed grief—weeping and sniffling and howling—and she would’ve demanded that Kye keep their composure, cry in that pretty way most girls were taught how to cry. Eat nothing but the Body of Christ, mija. Keep your stomach empty and wanting. That’s what a good daughter would’ve done. Cried gently, ate little, stayed quiet and generous. But Kye Lovato wasn’t made for gentleness. They weren’t designed to be small, or meek, or humble. They wanted to take. They craved
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