Bubblegum Flavor

I spilled the soap across the floor.

I don't use the bottle much anymore,

but the smell is sharp and thick and pink,

like the medicine left beside the sink.

Nineteen-ninety-four was a year of grit,

of a plastic cup and the weight of it.

The syrup was chalky and stuck to the tongue,

the kind of sugar that tastes like the young

are being lied to about the pain.

Now the kitchen smells like a summer rain

mixed with the ghost of a fevered bed.

The sticky residue is a dull, dark red.