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