Watermelon Gum: a Poem About Identity Crisis's In the City

The words “watermelon gum” and “stifling heat” shouldn’t be synonymous with the sentiments that ripped me to shreds during the month of July--and although all I can think of when I see your face is the chlorine and kool-aid you force fed me, these past nights have been considerably ill-inducing. I used to think summer and winter were different, but they have both done nothing but reopened the wounds--why can’t I stop vomiting? “If you hit the walls and they do not echo,” he tells me, “that means they’re older than time.” I slam my palm onto the walls and the sound opens up the part of me I had closed off, and suddenly I can see God standing off to the side, observing. How do I tell him that my mind and my heart have stood longer than the structure I lost myself in? The word “watermelon gum” shouldn’t be synonymous with your false sentiments, but I asked my little brother for a piece of his watermelon gum and now I cannot stop vomiting. I asked you why you turned into a loveless ghost, and the heat trapped in by the concrete walls prevented me from hearing your answer--I asked God why I could not breathe and he told me he did not know. My first mistake was letting you tattoo your emotions onto my sleeve, my second mistake was chewing that damn watermelon gum again, my third mistake was falling in love. I leave the songs Runner, Empty, Yellow, and American Boyfriend on repeat--I told God I could not breathe, and he told me I wasn’t trying hard enough.