We played truth or dare one afternoon. 

Your mother had taken your brothers to the store and you made me come in through the back door so that no one could see. 

We sat on your bed still covered in batman prints, and you said three simple words.
Truth or Dare
I said dare, and you said kiss me, so I did, but you were shaking, so I pulled away and you pulled me closer and kissed me a little steadier, but then I started to shake. 
You said dare, so I said take your belt off, and you did, and undid the buttons of your jeans. 

We kissed some more, and my sweater was pulled and torn and taken off, and you were kissing my neck when I said got brave and said Truth, and you stopped, and stared past me. 
You asked if I loved you, and I’m a liar so I said no. 
You said you didn’t love me either. 
You buttoned your jeans found a pin for my sweater. 
I found your mother’s compact and covered the bruises I’d left on your neck. 
We laid on your bed and double pinkie promised we would forget this ever happened, even though you laughed and said that wasn’t likely. 

Your mom came in the front door as I ran out the back, and I haven’t played truth or dare since. 
Sometimes I can see you from my window, talking on your phone or pulling back the ridiculous curls you’ve let your hair grow into.
I wonder if you still have batman on your sheets. I wonder if you’ve kept our pinkie promise