Victory tastes like vanilla. Not the bland vanilla of inexpensive, weakly flavored ice cream, but the sweet, pungent vanilla of flowers, honey, and sunsets.

Victory tastes pale yellow, slowing fading bright and gold.

Victory tastes like risk, like if I drink too much I’ll either drown in it or crave it more.

It takes like everything I’ve ever wanted and everything I still do not have.

It takes like fire, both keeping me warm and burning me alive.

Victory is desire. Desire is craving. And craving is pain.

Victory is just telling yourself you won’t want more. 𝘠𝘰𝘶. 𝘞𝘪𝘭𝘭. 𝘈𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴. 𝘞𝘢𝘯𝘵. 𝘔𝘰𝘳𝘦. More vanilla. More sunsets. More yellow.

Victory is eating when you haven’t in days, and telling yourself you won’t eat more. 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭.

Vanilla is addictive, even when you can’t taste it. It’s everywhere. In the eyes of broken people and the streaks across a sky. Vanilla is so close, yet so far away.