I’ve Been a Mother

I’ve been a mother since before my milk teeth fell out; broken marriage cavities drilling bull’s eyes in a mouth primed for extractions.
Permanent teeth hacking a premature rite of passage with the diseased pulp from a butcher named divorce because there’s no room for a child when the grown ups turn juvenile mocking disinfectant.
Young gums bleed less; learn even more quickly to clean up their own mess (and yours).
I’ve been a mother since you entrusted your mental health to dreams that died with a crude dissection of my hemorrhaging heart to stand on eggshells by your side.
I’ve been a mother since your Freudian slip displaced your misplaced affection in my swollen hips like weeds that grow in cracks.
But how do you ultimately kill a mother?
Do you suckle her soul right out of her breasts?
Do you grow too large for the space in her heart to stretch her womb (beyond its elastic limit) instead?
Do you coil/snake her umbilical cord back around her own neck?
Is it akin to killing a god?
Cause I swear I’ve been one every single time except for when the child was biologically mine.