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.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2019
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