Gummed down on the streets

I’d rather remain wrapped in the foil,

sealed in the box.

Untouched on the shelf of a convenience store,

than be gummed.

To have all my bubbly flavor sucked out.

To be chewed over,

and over again.

A temporary bubble of pleasure

that once it pops

is spit out.

Disregarded.

Replaced by a fresher piece. 

While I’m left stuck to the bottom of a shoe,

or underneath a table.

I’ve become someone else’s problem.

If given the choice I would’ve remained as a resin,

dripping from the safety and security of the sapodilla tree.

I’ve been stolen and synthetically sweetened.

Excruciatingly extruded into strips,

painfully packaged.