Does it smile as the sun glistens off its skin? Given mouth, would it sigh as their water washes over the green leaves of its hair? Is there comfort in its numbers, solace found in the presence of other strawberries?

I cannot help but wonder. Does it feel her lips as they grace its curves, sense the slight tingle of her teeth as they nip and slowly sink into its flesh, aching for its juice? What is it about this fruit that draws her? Her parents toil in the yard, summer sun forming pools of sweat on their backs, and she feeds on their effort. Is it the effort that makes the fruit worth it or does the fruit give birth to effort?

She drinks it in her lemonade, in her iced tea; she aches for its taste. She chews her starburst slowly, rolls her pink skittles against her tongue, savors the taste.

I have never felt the sun, yet we taste the same. Does that make us linked? Is it better because it’s natural? Does it look down on me? How great life must be for the strawberries.

But I’m only strawberry flavored…

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