No, I have my own baby and she tastes best on the rocks. She travels smoothly down my throat again and again. Then hits me to the head, catching me off guard. She is inconsistent in the way she treats me. Some nights she makes me float, dance and sing. Makes me embrace every man to my left and right. Other days, she hurts me so hard; I feel a crack to my skull, a rip in my stomach and poison rising in my throat. She abuses me and I abuse her back, because that’s all that I know. I abuse that rum-dripping baby, devour her dry. I never look back at that real child I left behind. The one with rosy cheeks and innocent fits of laughter. That one would have drained all my energy, and I was too busy draining that bottle.