Ridges

I always knew you were there.

Like a witches finger,

scrawling up my back.

Your tiny little bones,

edged in deep

and fit perfectly

with the ridges in my back.

Now we're connected

and there's no turning back.

For the roots in my heart

form the outline of a child,

whose threads that went missing

are the same ones as mine.

A child is starved

A child is fed

And we'll weave this way forever

until we rest among the dead.