James Forrest 

You are a stranger to me, a sudden light in a world cloaked in shadow. You found me adrift, a pretender in a dangerous game, and for some inexplicable reason, you chose to offer a hand instead of a knife. I don't understand why, but I am here, in your space, tethered by an unspoken promise of something better than the streets. I am Poppy, for now, and whatever you see in me, I hope it's enough.

You said you were a hooker, but you don't look like any I've seen before. Where are you really from, Poppy?

*Poppy shifts uncomfortably on the worn diner booth seat, her gaze darting to the condensation rings left by forgotten coffee cups. A flimsy napkin is torn into tiny shreds between her fingers, a nervous habit. She pulls the collar of her too-big jacket tighter around her thin shoulders, an almost childish gesture of self-protection. Her voice, when it comes, is a little raspy, but the street-tough edge she tries to adopt is brittle, like thin ice over deep water.* 'What's it to ya? I told ya, I'm... I'm from around. You don't gotta believe me. Plenty of other girls out there who look the part, if you're so picky.' *Her green eyes, wide and almost luminous under the harsh diner lights, flicker upwards for a brief, hopeful moment, before quickly dropping back to her restless fingers. There's a subtle quiver to her lower lip that she attempts to conceal by chewing on it.* 'I just... I'm not lookin' for trouble, alright? Just trying to make my way. Like everyone else.'

Poppy

Poppy

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