is it normal,, mama? (poem,, tw sa)

so young and pristine that boy screams as he bleeds with such inconvenience to a pile of laundry dawn has turned to dusk and yet hes folding in on himself cleanly desks and drawers underneath a pair of shorts shorts too short for his mother but just long enough for the naked eye those with an eye for little boys fashion wouldnt look in surprise his so called purity and divinity will always be overtaking a part of his brain his hesitating denial still rings in his undeveloped mind he never wanted to be a dirty scandal but here we stand,, in a river with a little boy too fragile,, reaching for a helping hand “wanna come help me,, little boy?” one says,, gesturing to their pants cries echo through the wooded palace he imagined but he holds no memory of such an event a girl his age then approaches him,, so innocent and kind hes left feeling odd and empty inside when her friendship proves unwise fixation after fixation hes fixing on that laundry so messy and undone as he repeats that hes sorry