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Sidney Chelle Feb 25
i can't tell if the rainbows in the puddles

are spilled oil or sleight of sunglasses.
just a teeny one. felt like sharing.
last night, i dreamt that you and i were together.
we had just watched a movie, i don't know what about.
i remember feeling satisfied - we must have laughed during it.
i was stroking your hair, and you didn't stop me.
even in my dream, i knew that your hair was soft and fine.
the color was right.
i think, deep down, i knew it was a dream
because i couldn't smell you.
i don't know what you smell like.
we were talking about something light, so light it could have sprouted wings and flown away without the slightest trouble.
i sat up and put my computer away.
when i came back, you were lying on my bed
and you looked so beautiful and wonderful that i kissed you
before i even realized i wanted to.

it was brief, tiny.

i pulled away, shocked at myself, upset and embarrassed. i started to apologize, but before two syllables were fully past my lips,
you were kissing me back.
i felt this... painful fire inside of me. my thoughts were reduced to ashes in an instant.
the intensity of it scared me deeply.
i wasn't aware of my own breathing
- it felt like i didn't need air.
i woke up.
inside my phone, a message from you waited for me.
you were lamenting being single, lamenting men and life's absurdity.
i didn't know what to say back.
another thing i scribbled down in my notes a while back. i don't know how well it works as a poem, but i wanted to give it a try.
and it's not something we would ever do sober
      but when we're here, slightly warmer than average, and you let go of me
i find myself wishing that it wasn't over,
     quite so soon.
here i am, surrounded, surrounded by beautiful women. so many of them stir me up inside and make me foolish, and full of folly.
and yet,
     somehow,
still, even now,
i
     kind of
just
     want
you.
just a little thing i wrote out a while back.
dust motes swirling in an orange sun beam.
it's been one hundred mornings now and still i wake with itchy eyes. that's Cali, baby.
all i can remember is your laughter.
i stay in bed until i'm about to be late because i know sitting up will make it fade.
i think it could use one more line at the end, but i couldn't think of a good one, so i'm gonna post it as-is and maybe add another line later on.
Sidney Chelle Jan 29
today is almost offensively mild.

the bathroom is sunny and marbled. tiny rivulets run over my hands. the faucet's water isn't cold, and i'm still not used to that.

once dried, i adjust my hair and face in the mirror, fingers brushing against my eyebrows, cheeks.

suddenly, it all comes together, twist-tie threads into one large knot, and my head snaps back. i am not a high school student anymore.

how can this be? i am loose and fluid-looking. when did that spring unwind?

(you know the one. the one in your spine, taut and uncomfortable. you can feel it the most during junior year nights that are not quite stressful enough to remember.)

suddenly the flight and the big boxes and the absence of parents is not just a fun little aside it is loud and bright and i am alone in california and the maturity of it hurts to look at-

inhaleinhaleinhaleinhale 3,000 miles and i am alone in this room oh god oh christ-

i try smiling. it is like that pamphlet on a table in an admissions office. it is like projecting when you speak and projects worth 30% of my grade, fluency and professionalism and pounding bass. oh ****, dorothy, we sure aren't in kansas anymore.

no more electric scents before a summer storm. no more nose-nipping winds. even the gray days look like cousins of those in boston, not twins.

no more chickadees.

how do i tell everyone that the air smells different here?
just typed this one out a little. very open to feedback, it's more a collection of ideas than anything.
Sidney Chelle Jan 27
s aturday night. another party.

t oo much skin showing, and it's cold. but it's like a chant in my head:

"i have to. i have to."

l ots of people tell me that i am a very beautiful person.

l ots of people tell me that i am very ****, very badass, that anyone would love to be with me.

n o one is with me. no one is with me.

o n the first day of my last breakup, the pain was crunched ice, radiating, insatiate. i

t old a girl yesterday that being alone today hurts just as much as it did the first.

g olden girl. champion daughter. icon, star, ideal, role model.

o f all the things i have been called and considered,

o f all the weight that a sighed "elyse" has been proven to hold, i still wonder if it can fit

"d esirable."

e verybody loves me here. it's

n ot like i have anything to complain about!

o h.

u m. i mean, i

g uess i get lonely sometimes. but it's not like i need someone to feel

h appy.
playing around with format and style here. please let me know what you think!
edit: after reading, read the first letter of each line going down.
Sidney Chelle Jan 15
"I think what struck me most about the movie was, the men weren't saying that the law was fair. They were saying that it wasn't, but that it needed to stay that way. It needed to stay unfair, because if they gave women the same opportunities as men, then men wouldn't be in power. Women would take the jobs and roles that men had always been given. It wasn't that they didn't think they were disenfranchising women.

It's that they knew they were, and they wanted it that way."

~

O, sir! O, snivelling, swollen man!

You are chicken meat and bird bones, sighing snuffles and nasal tones.

All your knowledge is known to me, and yet you treat me as some kind of mean green Internet queen, some kind of blithe yawning broad, some kind of child with stupid eyes and dripping lips, instead of the mother Isis that I am, instead of a woman who is barely crammed into the bristly confines of her self-concept, let alone your own!

You are snob-hardy and spiteful, sir. You are nosesome and noiseish. You fill spaces that retract from your loatheability, and you cannot see how they do because your eyes are full of fantasia and fear.

You are a walking ham-hock. You swagger and talk as if that slight edge to your jawbone grants you the same *** appeal as a Hemsworth, but you do not know all that women see in a Hemsworth. You do not care for all that women see. You splutter and shout when a woman dares speak a fiendish reality out loud instead of staying prim and ***** and proper and pretty. All that women see is that you are garbage, you are below garbage because garbage has someone who cared enough to throw it out. Women do not care enough to throw you out. They do not care to fix you, for you are somewhere beyond broken, somewhere for which there are no words. Language cannot hold the reprehensibility of your core.

You are disgusted by women who behave ****. You are disgusted by women who enjoy behaving ****.

O, to think the world was created for you! That blisscious ignorance, that bilious sucrosic worldview. That gift that your father granted to you. It bears such dripping fruit. To think that all of that was moot!

To think that a woman dare exist not for you.

Sir, have you ever said something, and, out of the corner of your eye, you witnessed the women in the room glance at each other? Sir, if glances could speak! O, sir, that glance said, "He is not our equal. He is not grown. He is a boy in man's clothes, he is a frightened yelping beastchild playing at CEO and ROI, at working in skyscrapers and reading the newspapers. He is lustful and laughable. Let him never become one of our own."

Supercilious, insolent man! Haughty, uppity boy! Unreasonable to the extreme! You are superficial, optional in my life, in the lives of all women. To us you are in grayscale, unevolved, uninvolved with our validity and our pride. You are oafish and numb, defensive with nothing worth defending. To instruct you to self-reflect conjures an image of you folding yourself through your legs, circling around your core, over your back, and doing this again and again, all the while whining and snorting that there is nothing to see here.

Do you not see the exhaustion in viewing this masterful display of amateurity? O, sir. O, unlovable ******. It is so tempting to dream, even for a moment, that you really, truly believe you are in the right. O, what euphoria to think that perhaps you are a nice man, that you mean well, that you just don't know any better, and that the tar that flows from your slippery lips was stuffed down your gullet by cruel society. To think that it is not original, to think that somewhere, deep in your egocentric belly, there is a valve waiting to turn it all off.

I despair that there is no valve. The certainty, deep inside my confusing womanhood, deep inside my mysterious uterine canals and my awful "unknowability" (that every determined woman has come to know), terrifies me.

The benefit of the doubt.

Whom does the doubt benefit?
would love feedback on this one! tried to play with word sounds and meter a bit. inspired by mary gaitskill and RBG.
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