Not a mother (a poem about alcohol)

River

You chose the bottle.

Again.

And again.

And we were left

to carry the consequences

you poured into every glass.
I was put in care

because you couldn’t put the drink down.

And for years,

I thought that was my fault.
I thought I must have cried too loud,

needed too much,

been too hard to love—

as if a child could break a mother

without meaning to.
But now I see

you never broke—

you just let go.
A mother, they say,

is someone who stays,

who holds,

who protects.

But you didn’t raise me.

You didn’t protect me.

You weren’t there.
So why should you
get the title?
You chose alcohol

over your children.

And that choice

cut through everything

that could have been soft,

safe,

warm.
I am angry.

I am sad.

And I still grieve

what I never had—

not a mother,

a woman

who gave birth

then disappeared

into the bottle.