In middle school we played spin the bottle.
“Truth or dare” was popular too.  
“Tell me your most deepest and darkest.”
I responded the only way I could – 
I laughed.  “I wish I had a deepest, darkest.”

Well, I don't want any secret anymore.
Don't want this ugly monster knocking at my door.
"Tell me, tell me, tell me," it squeals,
"Don't you think yourself a whore?!"

No.  I mean, yes.  I'm quite the whore.
I've been violated two heart's worth now,
And I hate to see my legs looking effeminate
ANYMORE.  (It's a sexual qualification.)

If I weren't a girl - and - 
If I didn't have such high standards -
and if I - then I wouldn't be that whore.
But he put something in my drink:
All blackness except for one flash of darkness,
When I thought, "is this? yes? okay..."
And I remembered nothing more.

But I remember that.  It's enough
to want to dig some fighting fingernails 
into both palms, hoping - 
that I might observe life rising 
to my surface like one big 
guppy sigh.  Blood red.