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Feb 25 · 228
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.
Feb 8 · 241
midnight reverie
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.
Feb 8 · 256
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,
still, even now,
     kind of
just a little thing i wrote out a while back.
Feb 7 · 298
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.
Jan 29 · 1.9k
afternoon on high
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.
Jan 27 · 935
plain jane
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.
Jan 15 · 1.3k
you're a bitch
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.
Dec 2018 · 707
Sidney Chelle Dec 2018
today, i return to Massachusetts. i will step out of Logan Airport and breathe the air i haven't breathed in four months. it will taste crisp and cold. i will do my special little breath before the big one when i step outside. maybe the wind will hurt. maybe it will feel good. maybe the hurt will feel good.
today, i will be driven home by someone who drinks Dunkin and softens their R's, just a little bit. just enough for you to notice if you listen. i will look out the window for the one house with the one chimney and i will say "you can turn here."
i will pet my cats and i will lie down in my bed and when i roll over, i won't hit the wall. when i look across the room, i won't see the dark lump of my roommate in her bed. i will not hear her phone buzz quietly during the night. i will not hear people in the distance, shouting and singing and laughing.
and when i wake up tomorrow and sit up, ready to say good morning to my parents and my brother, ready to play guitar and kiss my friends and cook and drive and smile and cry, it will all be the same as before but completely different.
because i am completely different.
"you are of this place. it is changing you."
i am of Pitzer now. i am of California and sun and In N' Out and cacti and mountains and linguistics papers and psych memes and long walks and Laemmle's and McConnell and dry air and sleeping late and ramen and boba and love and friendship now.
i am forever changed.
i am happy.
to be young and free and growing up is the wilderness. we are the wilderness.
"you don't have what it takes to survive the wilderness."
i have explored the wilderness.
today, the explorer and her wild heart are going home.
Sidney Chelle Dec 2018
Through the lens of a camera, everything appears far away. It's easy to feel nothing when you designate yourself a spectator.
My girlfriend was a spectator. All the time, she was carrying a camera in her delicate, pale hands. My mother had a name for delicate and thin hands: "artist fingers." My girlfriend used to call herself an artist.
"Mom, do you think Rebecca is a good girlfriend to me?"
My mother looked at me. Her glasses reflected the light from the living room lamp. I couldn't see her eyes. I was petting my cat while I spoke to her, and as I looked at my mother, my grip tightened. She opened her mouth to speak.
My girlfriend broke up with me via a Skype call. I watched her through the camera. She didn't look at me. Our relationship lasted a year and a half. I sobbed. She didn't look at the camera. It's easy to be a spectator. It's easy to not look at anything.
I raised my eyes.
My best friend was watching me. "Can you move your leg a little?"
Once I did, he lifted his camera. He took some pictures of me.
"Vincent... can I talk to you about something?"
He paused, and then lowered the camera.
"I had a fight with Rebecca."
Something in his eyes changed. If you hadn't been paying attention, you would have missed it.
January. "She said bad things about you."
My heart beat a little harder. My lungs hurt.
"I don't care."
I didn't look at him.
We were lying side by side. I looked at her. I had given her a necklace of guitar picks. It rested on her collarbones.
Suddenly, I said, "If we break up, promise me you're not going to throw away the necklace."
She looked at me. She had blue and green eyes, so beautiful. My mother often said that she had striking eyes.
"I promise."
I remember how, during our dates, she used to take pictures of the sky. I found it cute.
Vincent always thought that it was cliché.
My psychologist was watching me. "I'm not judging you."
I was silent. I looked at my fingers. Thin. Fine. I was an artist too. But she was the artist.
"How can you know that I'm not judging you if you don't look at me?"
A moment. She leaned back in the chair. Another moment. I remember that I could hear the ticking of her clock.
It came quietly. "Sorry."
I was at a party, talking with a pretty girl. The noise of the party seemed muted, somehow. Suddenly, she took one of my hands.
"I like your hands. You have such beautiful fingers."
She looked at me.
"Like an artist."
I looked at her. She had brown eyes, like dark chocolate. Striking. She was smiling just a little bit. If you hadn't been paying attention, you would have missed it. I laughed.
"Like an artist..." I repeated.
She laughed too, a little embarrassed. Her laugh was joyous, almost musical.
I smiled.
so i know this isn't a poem per se, but i wrote it for a short story class and i wanted to share it. enjoy!
Nov 2018 · 3.6k
speak (let's talk about it)
Sidney Chelle Nov 2018
the first time a girl put her hand up my shirt,
i discovered i have a, uh,
a, uh,
a, uh...
duh-uh-o, do you know the feeling when you're on the precipice of something and you're this close?
i was this close, and she asks me, "is this okay?" and i say,
f-f-f-fu-uck it f-feels guh-guh-guh-guh-uh-
GOD this feels bad, what i'm guh-getting at is i have a m-******* stutter!
yeah, maybe you won't hear it when we talk about class or work or that ******* **** that we met yesterday, but press those lips to my neck and chuh-chuh-check it out y'all!
my verbal clutter is my diaphragm's way of bouncing out ***** talk, chalk it up to muscles aflutter or some mental shudder when it comes to confronting my fee-ee-eelings, but eh-eh-every time she fu-ucking touches me my brain runs off squealing!
she turns to me, she says, “what's going on?” i say, oh buh-uh-uh-baby, i'm way too far gone.
y-your h-hands are bur-urning me up, i thi-ink i might ruh-uh-upture something if you g-get too close.
you know i want you the muh-uh-ost but guh-god my ******* tuh-uh-ongue isn't wuh-working, can i buh-orrow yours?
i took speech classes. i know how to enunciate, pontificate, exonerate, and yet never in ******* debate did i learn what to do when your anxiety won't abate.
i know this is a spate of splutter, i'm trying my best to utter what's going on in my mind, gorgeous, but my larynx is moving like a tortoise on crack, my mutter is trying to thwart us and i just can't fight back!
she says “take a deep breath,” i say g-god, give me death (and a ******* thesaurus).
let me delineate this a little more. sure, my attitude acts slack but what's wack is i asphyxiate when i step out of my comfort zone like i just stepped into outer space.
you might associate me talking like a chuh-chuh-chuh-cheap drum track with h-humiliating ****** encounters, but let me beg to differ.
i'm a p-pro at initiating, i give her wh-what she wants even if i do have a lot to uh-unpack. what can i s-say? i deliver.
so here's my th-ee-esis, ladies.
if a girl says what that mouth do, i ask her, buh-baby, what're y-you in the m-mood f-for?
i'm a g-giver, this juh-aw cl-cl-learly moves quih-icker than hu-uman brains are suh-uh-pposed to be thinking, so how about we buh-board this oh-oh-oral migr-gr-graine and ta-ake a o-one-way tra-a-ain to an ear-earthquake-sized shiver?
my t-tongue may be t-******* in knots, but i have lots of other ways to communicate how i appreciate the way you look right now. i can elucidate any spots of confusion for a beautiful being as venusian as you, because boo, in seclusion, there’s no disillusion that these college cots simply can’t bear the fusion of something as incredible as us.
but what i don't want is for you to pretend like it's ****. to s-eh-ex me can be hard; we're gonna need some hand signals, some honest discussion, definitely some patience with every kiss.
but let me ask you this:
would you prefer silence?
this is way better when it's performed but i tried to transcribe it to writing as best as i could. i hope y'all like it!
Nov 2018 · 854
Sidney Chelle Nov 2018
i look into my own eyes and i see my father, 23, watching my mother at a party.
after a moment of hesitation, he steps toward her, step, step, and now he steps towards me, holding me, sobbing into my shirt as i watch my classmates step, step, towards the auditorium.
it is a beautiful, dry day in California. it is the only time i have ever seen my father sob.
i look into my own eyes and i see myself, 6, frowning at the camera and smiling when it is gone. i was petulant. i was moody. i am still petulant. i am still moody.
my parents tell me things i said when i was too young to remember. my friends tell me things i said when i was too drunk to remember. i look into my own eyes, and they are empty of all that i wish i could remember.
i look into my own eyes and i see my girlfriend's eyes, 17. they look away. they are empty of all that i wish she could remember.
i look into my own eyes and i see my mother, 18, effortlessly beautiful. she breaks hearts. i break hearts. i look into my own eyes and i see myself, 19, effortlessly beautiful. still i am young and proud. still i am moody.
i look into my own eyes and my grandmother, 4 years old, looks back. she is running from the only country she knows to a new one, hostile and cold. her faith has no name to her yet and still she suffers its consequences.
i do not know the Marseillaise.
perhaps because of a 4 year old girl, running from a hatred that grows a more friendly face with every passing day, i do not know the Marseillaise.
i look into my own eyes and i see my brother, 16, alone in a room, crying because he does not understand all that happens to him.
i look into my own eyes and i see myself, 8, held by my parents as i cry because i do not understand all that happens to my brother.
i look into my own eyes and i see my best friend, 19 and alone on his birthday.
i look into my own eyes and i see my son, 19. i am not with him on his birthday.
i look into my own eyes and i see myself, 19. i am not alone on my birthday.
i look to my friends and see eyes that will be etched into my memory forever-
(the darkest brown eyes you've ever seen, framed by a gorgeous smile. light green eyes that shine like sea glass behind a mess of floppy hair. blue eyes as playful and innocent as a toddler about to break the rules.)
-and i know i could never be alone.
i look into my own eyes and i see all that has brought me here, all that here will bring forth from me.
i will never be alone.
i would really love feedback on this one! it's definitely a work in progress but i felt like it was at a good enough point to share it.
Nov 2018 · 349
a is for adult
Sidney Chelle Nov 2018
i saw a woman in my reflection tonight.
she stared at me with a challenge in her eyes, she looked like she wanted me to dare her.
she craved my indecision so she could knock it down and build some sure in its place.
her jawline looked like it could bite anyone who said she wasn't good enough. her jawline screamed good enough, great enough. it screamed its beauty. it will not listen to you.
her eyebrows ran free. they remembered years of pulling and plucking and shaping into something everyone wanted, and they sat and sang, defiant, knowing they were right all along.
those eyebrows were ferocious.
her nose held still some child, the only part that wasn't letting go. it still wanted buttons and stuffed animals, it still clung to me.
but she wasn't letting that stop her.
she pulled my eyes down, i saw her torso and shapes.
she was stout. her back wanted me to say she wasn't tall enough, so it could straighten and take up the whole room. it deserved the whole room.
her chest was there, feminine, developed. it didn't care for pressing and pressuring, it said, "here is a woman and she is for all of us. she will fight for all of us."
the shape of her was clear. there was no trickery involved in making her human.
her hair hung forward. it desperately tried to claim some innocence by covering one of those indignant eyes, but that eye just gleamed and glared right on through.
those arms held nations at their wrists, and those fingers itched to point at what she planned to change. she looked like she could wrangle a child, a horse, a life. she looked like she could save you, or anyone.
she was already saving me.
she always was.
definitely looking for feedback and room for improvement on this one!
Nov 2018 · 188
Sidney Chelle Nov 2018
i'm looking at her and she's looking at me.
orange-gold eyes shift slightly to my left.
was it my evocation that caused that?

she's a tiny, stripey chatterbox,
but not in a typical sense nor a sensible way.
she doesn't meow;
rather, she'll whine,
or trill,
or complain in indiscernible phrases.

she's like an old man, occasionally!

even as a child,
i would marvel at how animals
feel so different
after a shower.
scrubbed clean,
no lingerings of the day left behind,
they feel new and baby-like again.

i feel old again,
but her fur slipping past my freshly dried fingers
feels just like how
i dream
a cloud would,
a thought would,
a dream would.

"it's time for a break," i'll tell myself,
as i stroke her,
and it's a good break.
goodbye producing,
goodbye aging.
she and i have run this routine for years,
but we're not tired of it yet.

she likes to pretend she doesn't notice attention,
she'll avert her eyes and stay still and quiet,
basking in your rays.
then suddenly she'll turn, sharp-like, and stare at you
for a moment,
before doing a small quick hop and a turn
and running off again.

she's so small.
sometimes i'll just gently grip the folds of her skin
underneath her fur.
it feels like she could just shrink away into herself.
but her bones are thick,
and her muscles are enough
to hold her back from that.

a bolt of fuzz, warm in color but colder than blue.
mostly quiet, mostly missing,
but always around.

such a little source of gladness for me,
and she means something different,
a different, little, happy thing,
for everyone.
god, i miss my cats.
Nov 2018 · 139
Sidney Chelle Nov 2018
i do not know if you remember me.
maybe i'm only a shadow in your past.
a forgotten face, a handful of significant sentences, an online footprint that has yet to wash away.
but i have not forgotten you.
i have not forgotten how we slept in the same twin size bed for nights on end, squeezing our souls under thin sheets, feeling close but being distant.
i have not forgotten how you laughed with me over silly throwaways, cried four ways about a boy, lied four ways about a girl.
i have not forgotten how your hair looked extra gold in the spring sun, and how your smile made me feel like i had won, and how your dry eyes made me want to cry because you loved everyone,
except yourself.
i have not forgotten how my scratches soaked into my skin, and i let only you in because you were the only one who treated me like more than a joke.
you made me choke on unwritten words and unsent love letters. i drowned in the tines between friends, fear, and falling, listening for you calling, and you tried hard to cast me a line.
but i never called you mine.
i laughed with you about silly throwaways, cried in a craze over your loss in my life, lied four ways about loving you.
and now, it's true. i have my own world where all of my friends love me like you, and a ******* the brink of womanhood who smiles more than you and loves me for all of who i am.
and i am happy. more happy than i ever was around you.
but reminisce?
i do.
i do not know if you remember me,
but i never forgot all of you.
this one is a modified version of an older poem i wrote. it isn't really my current style but i felt like it was still decent enough to be on my page.
Nov 2018 · 167
dear brother.
Sidney Chelle Nov 2018
dear brother,
today is just another day, like any other.
the sun warms the grass on our front lawn.
we're low on groceries, so our parents are gone.
today’s the first day that you'll put your hands ‘round my neck,
and tell me that i was what made you do it.
no one here, not around, not a single person to check,
only me to console you when you say that you rue it.
and when they return, no pain shall be found,
because you're a good boy when others abound.

dear brother, i know
that you let your hurt show
by shifting to me. no one else understands
the weight of your looks, the strength of your hands.
push me down stairs, throw me at walls,
try to decipher this confusing world
by drowning out help and starting our brawls.
i'll try not to listen to the fear that you've hurled
at me because i understand that this is a wave
lapping at the peace you so desperately crave.

dear brother, it seems that you are odd.
when others hurt others, we say they are flawed,
but you just can't help the things that you do.
i used to blame hate, but i know that's not true.
i'll never comprehend the life that you live
because i'm neurotypical. ease is all that i know.
but you are not me and have nothing to give
when society asks you to not let it show.
so fists and fury will give you your vice,
even though our joined suffering is its final price.

dear brother, we never were born to be strong,
but i've been for you through these fights all along,
because i can mend my mind when it needs healing,
but yours is too different to cope with the feeling
of lost, of love, of clothes that you wear,
and maybe it's true. maybe this is too much
for me to sacrifice but you know that my care
is all that i offer when you lose your touch
with reality. i stand to have much to lose,
but we've found out who's more likely to bruise.

dear brother, perhaps i never will be
able to say the right words and let you run free
from the memories i've grown and the nights i have lost,
because all i can think is how much it would cost
to give you some medicine, make everything gone.
you tell me you're broken and must lose this life.
i promise you this, i will wait for your dawn,
and the day will come that you no longer have strife.
because, in the end, who cares who started what
when all that matters is who's in the rut?

dear brother, i'm no saint and i'm certainly no safety.
i overthink things and am often too hasty
to judge and to jump to conclusions about you,
but at times like this, whenever i drew
those lines in the sand, trying to push you out,
were not because i don't love you or **** you for joy.
i did not understand what you were trying to shout:
that your fights and your frights were your version of troy.
you hid all the unsure under abuse and absence,
and now, forevermore, i'll break down your fence.
(our shared blue-steel eyes, our disheveled brown hair.
i will try, dearest brother, to finally be fair.)
Nov 2018 · 192
blessings of the pond
Sidney Chelle Nov 2018
thick, heavy air
chews slumbering, tipsy words
humming, buzzing
balanced vowels hanging, suspended
above your gentle head

toes trace and fluster the surface
jumbly and weak, green wavering fields
held together with breath
and broken
and hopes of older times

see those arching bones
holding ancient and grow
see them love you
they have always loved you

there is a family here
maybe not right now
but their sounds fill this space
even when they not
even when they go

bobbling those aching fears
they can't touch here
you, forceful
and forever electric
and here, you may always be warm.
Nov 2018 · 202
Sidney Chelle Nov 2018
it's hot in my room.
my old white fan is spinning lazy out. we are being lazy together.
earlier i ran my recalling finger over my lips.
wanting you. thinking you.
here we are now. i am safe and **** and still now.
my heated hands are wandering. i want to remember this. i want to remember you.
i wonder if you will take these broken, burning hands and show me who you are tonight.
i will lose my words and wisdom. i will lose in this moment until i have only you.
i stopped thinking a while back.
we're running on music and laughter alone now.
this is what i've always wanted.
Nov 2018 · 248
on gender.
Sidney Chelle Nov 2018
it was never the big boy parts i wanted.
it was their soft details.
i wanted my arms to be more fuzzy, with wisps gleaming golden and straw in sun.
i wanted my shoulders to be broad, unbroken, and busy. i wanted to carry weight and spin girls dizzy.
i wanted a back, straight, always pointing north. i wanted angles and shores, i wanted fuzz and more.
i toothbrushed my face every night, suds glistening, mind listening, waiting for days where i had something to clean,
when it would feel just right.
i told myself i wouldn't let it be me, i pressed into seams and skirt's flow and i acted like i didn't know how it hurt.
i wanted dropped sounds and fewer mounds, i wanted free of feminine ecstasy. i wanted golf rounds and the sounds of a daughter looking at me
and saying daddy.
i pushed my fears into my pants, i held onto cramps and crowns, focusing so that i could be less man and less frowns. i packed and bound and wondered if i was right.
if i really was Eli at night.
so i'm sailing these seas of hormones and bliss, i'm sealing my soul with every kiss, and i'm looking at our horizons.
and i'm wondering if there is a me out there.
Nov 2018 · 126
love, in sepia
Sidney Chelle Nov 2018
i never met you until i liked you.
     and here,
     i like you.
love, you and I are two shards of the same soul;
     both broken and whole, we dance
through life,
     lines, light,
          and a crow-called town,
like we never knew how to fight.
like we never knew how to fall down.
     i want us to drizzle like a mild, crawling day.
     i want us to stay fresh and new,
i want our gentle to tendril out and clean our joys like we are the new gods, like we are a sun ray,
     and i want you.
and you might not know what i mean,
     when i say i feel we are not parted,
          but stretched.
there's no itch here,
     there's ease,
          and simmerings,
               but there's no burn.
                    not even a slow one.
                    you'll be safe with me, hon.
               you are all i need, all i learn.
          you're in many things.
     you're so eager to please.
be calm, my dear.
be free, lovely.
be mine.

find me in your old textbook someday.
page 12, 13, or 15.
i'll be waiting.
me, for you.
Nov 2018 · 158
Sidney Chelle Nov 2018
speak softly to me.
when i ask you to reminisce on the earthy goodness of the soul,
press your holy roller lips against mine,
and sooth the wanting grind of that political burn i call mine.
let me rage out the tremors, let me speak shout the murmurs, and let me be endless if i can.
i know not of broken wings, but i know of hardships, things that poetry just cannot hold without making love or loss or simple sounds the music that surrounds every achen breath.
truly put, i can't stay put. i can't suffer without sharing, i can't commend without caring, and i can't be your everyman without being yours wholly.
love, you are my sanctity, and the kneeling to my unholy.
your brow is burnt with fiery courage. your strong needs me, but not when it comes to holding your own in a clean, clear world broken only by flushed color in the cheeks of angry men.
in a place where hate has started to spring more freely than ever before, in a boxed up life that won't let either of us stop hearing our own echoes and those of liberally fantastic minds, say that you'll be with me when the fire breaks in.
say that i have committed no sin by being and burning faster than i can run towards the ocean, say that i have nothing to fear when the danger is here and at our door and ready to knock;
for me, once more.
there is no end to our thoughts.
there is no end to the readiness i feel towards starting a life with eyes screaming vain freedom and ears holding gentle whispers of "now, we aren't broken quite yet"
i am ready to love you and i am ready to be engulfed in whatever the waves are going to bring.
i am ready, and i am ready to fight for us and you and this country and my country and my county and myself and everyone who's ever held a baby and said,
"you're going to breathe flames one day,
and i can't wait to see it"
let's begin it.
let's do ****.
let's be,
Nov 2018 · 1.6k
Sidney Chelle Nov 2018
do you ever look at that freshman year photo of yourself,
(maybe hair fuzzed, maybe eyes wide, maybe teeth wider still,)
and think,
you think, “that’s not me.”
and you’re right.
it’s not old.
it’s not tired.
it hasn’t slept through first period yet - and survived.
(so you had to fight off two cats to do your homework, ended up being pretty rushed and of course you know teacher wants your best work…)
it hasn’t crashed a car into the garage yet.
(*******, you were going so slow! how did that even happen??)
it hasn’t had sweaty-palmed movies, a quick rub on the pants before going in for the hold.
(she smells so good!)
your mom makes you broccoli, extra mushy because that’s how you like it, and you get a little teary.
you think “i haven’t cried over broccoli since i was five.”
you wear the same coat that you did in seventh grade.
the arms are stained.
you can almost still see grass from hills long ago.
when you put it on, your stomach still rolls down those hills a little bit.
you feel the cold snaps inside its very lining,
an excited screech, a simple pleasure.
you still know how to do that special little breath before the big one when you step outside.
(means your lungs don’t turn into icicles. maybe you won’t need it where you’re going.)
i bought that coat about one foot two ago.
(i’ll still need it where i’m going.)
i confessed my first about three hundred sins ago.
(i’ll still need it where i’m going.)
you went from giving gum to people you’ve never thought about,
(trust me, it’s nothing!)
to trademark glares, meant to keep the thoughts out.
it feels like there’s a watermark over everything you write.
it feels like your sense of sight
is far off.
(maybe it’s in california,)
it got pulled out.
(maybe it’s in pennsylvania,)
it rooted again elsewhere.
(maybe it’s in boston. maybe it’s always been boston. your whole life, it was boston. you never even knew.)
glassy-eyed stare,
(over water.)
now that’s some trademark glare!
(over ice. over easy. over and out. so over it.)
maybe in sophomore year you called a teacher by their first name,
and ran away when you got that trademark glare.
now it’s “hey douglas, guess who didn’t do their homework uh-gain?”
it’s a joke that y’all share.
you know you won’t remember so much.
you won’t remember the shoe squeaks, every last-minute print job.
you won’t remember the chicken nuggets, how much gum bubbles ****** you off during MCAS,
but you remember a glow.
i remember a warmth, so much.
i remember every time that i grew a little more “i can do it and i don’t know what it will be,”
even if i don’t have the words.
will you remember too?
i wrote on my arm once,
“it all feels so dissolved.
eyes are tired.
eyes are hopeful.
the growing up gets closer each day,
and we are moving on.”
all of this isn’t knowing you can fly.
it’s knowing you know how to try.
Nov 2018 · 119
Sidney Chelle Nov 2018
if the butterflies in my stomach could speak,
they'd say, "****!"
"this girl is fine as ****!"
those *******, entitled-*** words spill out to my rough-hewn friends as my heart races, races to find a way to slow down.
if we were a month ahead of now,
maybe i'd be ******* in my bravery and putting my cuddlery out.
maybe you'd know why i look away quick when you look like you want to take a bite out of this.
maybe you'd know why this smile has a twitch.
for now, right now,
this is Totally Nothing,
     (and if this is nothing please god i want some more nothing)
and we Aren't a Thing,
     (though it’s SOME fling)
and if anyone hates catching feelings it's me, but if there's nothing to catch and no one to drop,
then, can we stop?
and just,
Sidney Chelle Nov 2018
hey babe. it's been a while.
how is chicago?
school is great.
i see my friends' smiles every day, so full of promise and love.
i date girls and they are beautiful and i make them anxious which makes me That *****.
i do homework and it is interesting and difficult.
i do therapy and it is interesting and difficult.
i drink and smoke and make bad decisions and live with them.
i love people openly and i love people quietly and i dislike people at a moderate volume.
i sing when no one is listening. i call vincent and rachel and sophia and i tell them about the view here and how the weather is so nice all of the time. i message kids back home and support them as they go through all that we went through. i watch movies with girls who look like you and talk like you and make love like you.
and in all of these things,
not once do i miss you.

— The End —