When I learned of how mother cut her tongue on those pages my tongue cried to feel the sting of sacred edges. My bones ached for the breaking I knew those pages could bring. hit me. cut me. rip my sides out. I would scream at her locked door. The door she hid behind cutting her tongue on those sacred edges. The day mother let me in I walked in on all fours with a hunger for anything she left. But mothers tongue was gone. Her bones were no more. She licked all those sacred edges. She was broken by every last page. She was no more and I fed upon her flesh. But a child shouldn’t feed upon a sacrifice such as this. A child. me. a young girl. never left that room again. never tasted the sacred edges and felt the breaking of pages. I just was and never could be. For the rest of my days until my spine was worn down by the windows light and my legs married the dust.

bones.

My bones have been moaning and ever so slightly growing. It started the day that you slept on my hollowed out chest. It started the day you left your little treasures in my palms. We were convinced we had stopped growing before we met you. We were confident that our arms would never reach the top shelf. We were wrong. As are most who think they will never grow. For we started to grow and now we can reach the highest of shelves. And our bones owe it all to you. You whispered into them. Begged them to grow along side yours. Sang them the songs that others sang to you when you thought you had stopped growing. But now we grow. you. me. i and us. Our bones are growing and we are ready to dance upon the legs of others and beg them to grow with us. To show them. To teach them. To tell them that their tiny bones can grow.