There

I don't like you
as my mother.
I don't want you
as my mother.
I don't need you
as my mother.

The words -
hung like clothes
on a line -
dripped with
defiance
certainty
bitterness
pain.

The words -
delivered
from the womb of
abandonment
abuse
rejection
grief -
sliced
the hearing heart
into filets
of sorrow
and left it
riven
and
bloodied
on
the cutting board.

What
would a mother say
What
should a mother do
Where
could a mother go
from

there?

I don't like you.
I don't want you.
I don't need you.

The words
careened
around the room
like a teenaged driver
late for curfew,
like an arrow
seeking an apple,
like a bowling ball
bearing down
on tenpins.

Screech.

Swoosh.

Strike.

There.