Her lips are cracked and dry, pale grayish pink coverlets atop raw red sores. She licks them often, and her pierced tongue leaves them wet and crude, peeling but cherry red for a fleeting moment.

It's probably because she smokes so much, then never uses chapstick. But who bothers these days, she says easily, no one she's ever met has died because they never rubbed some watermelon balm across their mouth; and besides, smoking's more fun if you don't leave glitter all over the paper.

But everything's more fun these days.

Sex, drugs, smokes –it's easier with strangers, tastes better around friends, looks cooler without glitter.

She just smiles, rolls her reddened eyes, and bites at stinging lips.