Hour eight point five to hour five, I sit at a desk that I use in place of every table imaginable,
watching as the realms behind my eyes—in patterns of disturbance
and disappearance—force themselves upon me.
I have a desk that sits at me, and my blood flows towards my heat but stops in my ears.
I am working, don’t bother me I am busy,
and then it strikes me—I cannot own nothing, so I must be alive.
Shades like blue and others that I can’t make-out with
(oh, how I want to feel the lips of a color) are what the walls seep over me, my knees
become my dance partners when my legs fall asleep.
Time does not pass, it gobbles up my eyes and licks the back on my heels,
distant mothers do not exist for I was never born,
I am sexually attracted to a coworker who I do not think has hatched yet.
I sit every day in a new room in my head, sometimes one I recognize, sometimes a closet,
and in other realms, fathers and daughters leave their nests to choke on worms, smile,
then return as miniatures with thorns where their toes should be.
Days are not clusters of hours; they are miles of more than one different length.
My desk does not have an end, I cannot see it for miles—
but miles are not distances, they are shivers from hot air.
Raised outside of Los Angeles, Jacqueline Michaels is a current Chicago resident and undergraduate student at DePaul University where she studies Literature and Psychology. She is a freelance poet, nonfiction, and short fiction writer who works additionally as a writing tutor and staff member for DePaul University’s literary magazine. Her work has appeared in GASP Magazine and Crook & Folly amongst a few features in independently published zines, and you can read her current works or contact her through the Instagram account @jacs_pour_heart.