She turned into a baby with a bottle in her hand
Her small hands clasping the glass,then reaching for the bottle,the bottle almost bigger than her mouth
The guilt filling her tiny stomach and killing the taste she wanted to use to forget.
But what should a baby barely able to walk need to forget?
Memories of selfishness and blood stained nights
She rarely cries now but when tears trickle down they are because she is still not used to the sharp pain that punches her chest as she downs it all
A baby with a bottle
A baby with a bottle that she can't recognise the words on the label
Yet she drinks on
More determined than an adult
As the dark mists of depression swivels around her fragile head