lips cracked and dry.
saliva sticks and clings to tongue and teeth.
and all the while, her eyes scan left to right for a drink,
something to quench her thirst.
but it can’t just be any drink. it has to be thee drink. this one must be chilled and large in her hands. it must have curves in all the right areas for her grip to hold. it must be delicious but organic, real, nothing with too many chemicals. also, it must pop on her lips. sweetness only goes so far. she needs a fizzle in her life. a fizzle that makes her eyes water and wonder why she sipped it as the fizzles tingle her nose. this drink should also have a little alcohol too. what’s better than acting upon and doing things in stupor? doing them to try and blur what’s really in front of you! she likes how it taste, but she likes what it makes her forget even more. and shouldn’t a good drink do that? this drink must also grant her eternal life like a greek goddess’ ambrosia so she can sit on mt. olympus and look down upon all the rest, because who doesn’t want to be worshiped? or feared? this drink should listen to the trials of a rough monday, show up with chocolates and roses unexpectedly, and when kissed, transform into a prince that will whisk her away, somewhere, anywhere but here, because she can’t escape the mess she’s made right here, because that mess is not something that can be swept under a rug. it’s something that must be erased from the mind.
a drink. a panacea. nectar for the gods.
and even though she knows this drink isn’t all those things, she still clutches him in her hands and hopes. with every sip she’ll wonder, did it fizzle just a little? just now?
and she’ll drink and drink until lips are shriveled from moisture.
until tongue is gagging, gasping for air.
she’ll sip and taste nothing at all.
a thirst unquenchable.
"you can love her, suffer for her, or turn her into literature."
and if she doesn’t belong in the first two categories, definitely make her into literature. some girls just look better in letters than they ever did in reality.