Centipedes practice matriphagy.
Not a myth.
Not a metaphor.
A mother — devoured by her children
for their first meal.
No poetry written.
No Mother's Day observed.
No tearful obituaries.
Just flesh.
Given.
Eaten.
Gone.
And just like that,
she disappears.
No shrine.
No sainthood.
No sob story.
But humans —
they mythologize motherhood
like it was a war they never enlisted in.
As if birth was a betrayal
by their own body.
As if nine months of choice
were stolen time.
They birth children
and demand altars.
Gratitude draped in guilt.
Indebtedness disguised as love.
So what
if human mothers
consume their children in reverse?
Not with teeth —
with silence, shame,
and a rusted dagger called
"after all I’ve done for you."
They call it sacrifice.
But sacrifice doesn’t invoice the living.
It doesn’t linger in accusations.
It doesn’t wake you up in the middle of your 30s
and whisper: “You owe me.”
Centipedes don’t do that.
They die once.
Clean.
Complete.
Undocumented.
But human mothers —
they die in installments
across your choices.
They stain your vocabulary.
They own your mirrors.
They say “I love you”
and mean: “Stay broken where I can see you.”
The thing about humans is:
they name everything others do
with surgical precision.
But their own rituals?
They call them culture.
They call them tradition.
They wrap hunger in silk
and pass it down like scripture.
Because once you play blind,
truth becomes treason.
And humans love truth
only when it isn’t theirs.
Just like the mothers
they were birthed of —
who pass on trauma like heirloom,
teach silence as maturity,
and punish disobedience
as betrayal of blood.
Centipedes don’t punish.
They feed.
And vanish.
But humans —
they leave bite marks
in your decisions.
Bruises in your identity.
Wounds that answer to their names
even after they’re gone.
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