made him cower in a corner
cringing from the 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
sticky and off colour
I am shaken
that I made a 10 year old quake
stutter and stammer
ready to say anything to avoid attack,
confused, fearful
that errant behaviour
of the mildest degree
could push his mother over
and make him wonder forever
about how he should dance
the waltz of avoidance
with her, around her,
away from her.
He loved her
mostly,
when she cuddled and massaged him
but
sometimes he lights a match
that starts an inferno,
unknowingly, ,
and maybe he would rather
retreat beneath his shell
than ever do math
with her again.
No comments:
Post a Comment