She loved the alcohol already like she loved strawberries.
She loved the alcohol already like she loved the slur in her words, the blur in her vision, the sway in her drunken hips.
Strawberries are sweet, but vodka burns.
She catches a strawberry to sweeten her skies. It just wasn't enough to calm her down.
A blue solo cup attaches to her hand, a momentary extension of her arm. She fills it halfway, twice. Strawberry vodka tastes good when she doesn't realize how much of her drink is alcohol and how much is juice.
Her eyes cloud with light. There's a sky in her eyes.
She drinks until she forgets she's human. She tumbled down the front steps and wept to her friends. She stumbled, puked out her dinner behind, and cracked her skull against the cement of the sidewalk as she laid in her vomit.
She loved strawberries. That's why she let them burn in her throat.