if victory had a literal taste, it’d taste a lot like **gwendolyn lieve** — sickeningly sweet to the tongue.

boldly claiming that victory tastes like something that’s alive and breathing is absurd, _i know_. but just picture this; you’re friends with a beautiful girl. not just beautiful in the way people are when the sunlight captures them just right, but beautiful in the way like she was sculpted with intention, as if the greek gods themselves laid their bare hands on her and deemed her worthy of their grace. but it’s not just her beauty. she carries kindness in the way others carry oxygen, so natural that it seems endless. boundless. **limitless**.

generosity drapes over her shoulders and people gather around, drawn in by her personality like flowers reaching for the blazing sun. and somehow, _somehow_, this beautiful girl looks at you, little ol’ lonely you, and decides that you are worth knowing.

now just picture this; you’re **making out** with this beautiful girl. sudden, maybe even shocking, but how could you resist? the temptation pricked at your skin for far too long, seeping into your ribs, curling around something in you that has never known the touch of a lover.

her lips are coated with saccharine lipstick, which is vaguely reminiscent of strawberries — but that artificial sweetness _pales_ in comparison to the real treasure cove that is buried in the depths of her mouth. her mouth is warm, tasting of something honeylike and nectarous. and when she pulls you closer, the breath leaves your lungs like an exorcism. her hands move without any hesitation. tugging, undoing, desperate in a way that sets your skin aflame. and like a magnet, your hands are drawn to hers.

years later, when walking down the memory lane with _your_ gwendolyn, sharing stories with friends, you can’t help but smile bashfully as they ask how the two of you could be so sure in each other. with a shrug, you nonchalantly say, “**i held her hand tight, and i wasn’t ever letting go**.”