For a few months of grade school somewhere between
Mismatched socks and argyle sweaters
I was obsessed with Hubba Bubba Bubblegum.
Grape, sour watermelon, blue raspberry,
Anything that could blow double bubbles and eventually get
Stuck in my straw-style hair.

I’d practice outside for hours
Trying to get the perfect bubble inside a bubble,
Like Dad could
But they always popped too soon.

Mom hated bubble gum.
The smell,
The texture,
The sound of smack-smack-smacking
Made her gag like a mouthful of maggots.

I’m older now and I can appreciate
My bubblegum phase for what it was,
A stretching, sticky mess of figuring out
Who I was and who I thought I wanted to be.

Somehow I couldn’t fit the two bubbles together,
Who I was took up too much tack,
Always smack-smack-smacking
Their opinions together and popping into conversations without warning
Or approval.

I spit them out,
The person I was,
They lost their flavor too soon like Fruit Stripes
Blew the worst bubbles like Trident,
Always comparing themselves to other Hubba Bubba Bitches.

I find myself wishing I could relive those days on the porch steps,
Blowing bubble after bubble,
Chewing until my jaw aches,
Trying to stretch
For something, someone, some desire

And I deflate just the same.

Kylie Jorgensen holds a B.A. in Writing and has been published in Portage Magazine. Kylie writes poetry and creative non-fiction, capturing the snarky, raw, and sometimes beautiful bits of humanity throughout their work. They live in Fond du Lac, Wisconsin with their chosen family and an absurd amount of house plants.