PERILOUSPOTION.

‘ eighteen. ‘  she quickly corrects,  eyes darting down to her bare middle.  ‘ my shit ?  it’s just my stomach. ‘  & to prove her point,  she keeps the shirt raised, a clear act of defiance. she refuses to back down.  ‘ if you don’t want to do it,  that’s fine.  i’ll go get it pierced at some shop that charges way too much & requires a fucking birth certificate.  or .. you could stop treating me like a high school prostitute & help me out.  your pick.  but just so you know ..  i prefer the latter. ‘

❛     oh,  much better.     ❜     sarcasm coats the tongue,  laid on  thick  as arms fold over her chest.    doesn’t need to ask if the girl has always been this  forward  because she knows the type  too  well.    actively avoids even catching a glimpse of skin,  gaze narrowed in elsewhere.    sea level,  eye to eye    (    because if she doesn’t  see it,  she doesn’t run the risk of embarrassment.    )     ❛     all they’re gonna ask for is your  driver’s license,  yo.    but that’s your call t’ make.    you really gonna let a  dirty - ass  kid stick a needle in you ?     ❜     as if to drive her point home,  she unfolds her arms to present the  dirt and grime  beneath her fingernails,  encrusted around cuticles.    her hands are bruised,  unclean.    a result of living on the streets.