I am a bubblegum
that has lost its taste.
I came in pinkish-turquoise
irresistibly innocent packaging.

I was unwrapped by you.
Chewed up by the muscles in your mouth.
Savoured by your taste buds.

Once.

I was sweet.
Sometimes too sweet,
and sugary-high
for your impulsive liking.

Popsicles.
Apple pops.

Now I am a pale-pink
-coloured bubblegum.
I am a bubblegum
that has lost its taste.

I am the bubblegum
that you stick underneath your desk.
The bubblegum that you
frequently-accidentally,
or coincidentally,
brushed your bare knees upon.

I am the bubblegum
that is hidden,
and hardened.

How I wished
you would just spit me
onto the ground.

Let them walk upon me.

How I wished
you would just spit me
onto the crumpled worn-out wrapper.

Wrap me,
and throw me
into the ******* bin.

Let them recycle me.

But instead,
you keep me glued
underneath your desk,
along with other bubblegum
that have lost their tastes.

Hidden.
Hardened.

Sometimes,
you miss my taste.

Just like how I miss
your gliding tongue
—against me.

Hardened.
Hidden.

Somebody,
scrap me.

🍬