Cherry. Her name was Cherry.
Like the Maraschino, the ones you'd put on your glass of Coke and pretend you actually paid an extra dollar for a cherry-flavored soda.
Cherry, like the red of her lips, the red of the marks a thousand events had left upon her— still burning, still healing, still opening and aching.
She was typical, cartoon-like. A character in everything she did. Though she changed a lot, and was never the girl you met the night before. That one's dead; suffocated herself with the 7 past lives she had tried to burn.
Surprisingly, painted her nails not red, but black and pinks. Surprisingly, she smelled like lavender. Surprisingly, her hair was blonde, and then auburn, and then black, and then white.
Cherry, like the lip smacker she'd begged me to buy her because it had not only her name, but a cute cherry doodle on the packaging. Her kisses tasted awfully sweet ever since.
Cherry, like the color that expelled youth and happiness, a life that's worth living, even in the worst of days.
Cherry, like the strong reds from all of its types. Cherry like the blood splashing across her neck when it all came to an end.
