What truths did I have to tell at thirteen,
coming out from a day in the Barbie Dream House
for a walk in the desert with boys?
Working class truth exposed
my economic poverty and desperate
hunger to be liked, even loved.
We sat in the secret shallow hideaway.
Me the oldest, tallest, and only girl
feeling good about paltry male attention.
Nobody cared about the truth, not then, not now.
Dare the only choice, for a girl with no options
I laid my neck bare.
Mother smoothed the tremors and sobs
over news of forced conception, until
she saw the mark he left as his own true confession
Hiding under my hair with all the other secrets.
She could not help but laugh when she saw the bright red cherry,
which she managed to composedly explain, is not how people make babies.