God make me his rib again,
So I never have to leave him.
So I can be a part of the man,
Who makes me turn back to dust.
He takes the love you had at your fingertips,
When you formed me in my mother’s womb,
And he cradles me in his arms,
Until I’m just pliable dough in his palms,
Willing to be kneaded,
Ready to be reformed again.