Childhood is like bubblegum that you try to swallow. It sticks to your teeth, clogs your throat, refusing to let go. You can’t spit out its faded pink rubber, can’t breathe it in- no, you’ll suffocate in its bubble if you do. The residue leaves ghosts in your teeth, their muffled wailing vibrating against the roof of your mouth. You cough and hack and even try to pull with your fingers. But it only fuses further with your flesh, until you finally, inevitably, regrettably swallow it whole, remnants of it staining your fingertips, teeth, and tongue. It settles at the bottom of your stomach, a presence that weighs heavy as a bottomless pit, remaining an insatiable hunger that eats away at your heart.