Mint Green Walls by Lacole Yang (15, California)*

Mint green walls enfold her, dripping slowly with
Saccharine summer sweat. She feels 
Her mind pouring out of her ears, but clogged like
Chlorine-heavy pool water that dwells past
Its welcome. She welcomes nothing within
These walls because no one is outside ​

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The door, its edges glued with popsicle drips,
Hinges squealing in broken-radio reels. 
Heatwaves have puddled liquids and 
Toasted solids, so her room is void of activity,
Sleepy and soft, microwaved too long. 
Only the walls, drying and melting and redrying,
Are available for her to stare at, and she stares,
Wondering if she is also melting.
There’s a mirror on the
Far side of the room, to her back, but 
It’s distorted from trying to 
Outshine the Sun. She doesn’t know if 
It tells the truth, and she doesn’t want to 
Know. Believing in dissolving is as good as
Dissolving, although she’s sat still 
Too long to have belief. Raising a finger to
Slide across the warm walls, she tests her 
Tangibility. Her hand comes away green, 
But streaked brown, and she wonders: 
Were there chocolate chips in the walls? And
Did she ever know the taste of their brittle bumps?

​