Not realizing that it was she
originally
She who offered him up
to the dark
he was her sacrifice
To the God of her martyred motherhood
his funeral pyre built of her suicide threats
she scrawled in crayon, on the too fragile paper of his mind

Did I mention
how she refuses to take credit for his ugliness

But how easily she takes credit for his beauty
refusing to see the pain she gave so freely
That he also accepted
as only a child could

How the pain he carried
turned to cuts on his arms
and his soul
razored there by her sharp words
little slices of hate that never heal
still bleeding today
long after his flesh is available for damage
his soul remains

in the minds of others, in hers as well
always will she be
pacing over a floor of regret
polished to a shine
only made possible by the soul
of a guilt ridden mother

07/11/2009