I function in Times New Roman size 12 font

in speed walking for participation points

in rows of plastic desks too small for textbooks


It’s a central part of me

can’t be severed

cause it’s leeched to the flesh of my brain


like that tiredness that lies behind my eyes

the tiredness that used to go away with sleep

with glucose and insulin


or those cravings, sense memories

miniature pickles on Phelps hamburger sliders

a tiny AJR violin on repeat between my ears

the climbing chalk pressed white against my Adidas

the smile of Holiday when I enter my parent’s house

the tasting notes of finely ground espresso fitted into portafilters


They linger in the inner crevices of my nose

seep through my saliva into an aftertaste

a little trace in the furthest corner of my mind


so far back I could tell myself they’re gone

but my intuition turns their slightest fingertip-touch

to an eerie unplaceable pressure

positioning my self one degree off


And there’s that larger press

that tells me to find the perfect words

to capture the peripheral thoughts


It lifts the tiredness from my eyes when I do

and squeezes my trembling stomach when I don’t


So I open up the Google doc

and change the Arial size 11 font

because I could never function right if not


Rebekah Cook

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