Taken unceremoniously like shoplifting something you didn’t want. I wanted to kiss the boy with caramel skin. A fantasy turned nightmare. Ripped tights, blood on gravel – a sacrifice. He made me buy the condom at the bodega. “You don’t want to get pregnant, right?” Newport wedged between his chapped lips. He held me down while they watched. “Who wants next?” were the last words I heard before I ran down the stairs and to the subway. I was 12. I sit with that child, lost in the brambles of shame. I owe her the truth. I owe it in ink.
Vickie Fernandez is a writer, poet and storyteller. She is a lover of strong coffee, loud music and red lipstick. Instagram: @vickiefernandez