Too Loving

Some saw a clinging troll, others the saccharine flesh of a dark love. The mother loomed over his brow, swaddled his senses. Each day, the boy stumbled further from that too loving embrace. He grew ill-formed in mind by the cloy of her. Young girls recoiled, older girls, twisted rumors into strings and taboo nets, kept a bundle of ticklish images close. He played no games with boys; he 'was' the game they played. Their kicks curled him around contorted hankerings. His mother drew out the threads of guilt she had planted. As puberty gnawed, she trembled to fashion her substance inside of him. To closet him alone into her needful passions. She made herself the hollow at his center. until her abnormal demands drove him into a toolshed where he had now to choose, between either an axe or a hammer.