made him cower in a corner
from the poison-tipped barbs
of my words, wishing for a shield
against the torrent that
pinned him to the wall.
The red mist lifts,
but the shame lingers
like slime after a snail,
sticky, off-colour.
I am shaken.
I made a 10-year old quake,
stutter, stammer,
ready to admit to anything
to avoid attack,
fearful
that errant behaviour
of the mildest degree
could push his mother over.
He will wonder forever
how he should waltz
avoidance
with her, around her.
He loves her
mostly,
like when she cuddles him,
but sometimes
he lights a match unknowingly
that starts an inferno
and maybe he would rather
retreat beneath his shell
than ever do math
with her again.
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