A Kind of Loving
Some thought her a clinging troll,
others the saccharine offering
of a dark love.
The mother loomed over his life,
swaddled his senses.
Each day, the boy
stumbled further from that womb.
He played no games with boys;
he was the game they played.
His mother drew out
the threads of guilt she had planted.
As puberty gnawed,
she began to fashion
her substance inside of him..
She made herself the hollow
at his center
until her abnormal demands
propelled him to a toolshed
where he now had only to choose
between a hammer or an axe.
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