My name is Chelsea. 22, post-collegiate life. My weaknesses include craft beers, bearded men, and the Oxford comma.
One Ring

We pull on each other’s voices like bedsheets

A cross-country breeze made up of whispered “miss.”

I became so used to counting away the days

I forgot what it felt like to look ahead.

(Source: postbluebeats)

A Kiss on the Shoulder

Bury your lips in the back of my shoulder like the shallow end of a serrated blade, teasing with the corners of its tilted teeth. Kiss my bones blind with the same fervor you often drag your angled hand over my spine as it slopes away from your waist. And I will let your lock permeate through my skinned shoulder blade, my muscle, my begging blood, into the dark-sided moon of my beating heart.

Leave me blind. Love me for the valleys of my side.

I think that’s the reason

We feel shivers in our spine.

(Source: postbluebeats)

It Feels Great

A Poem by John O’Callaghan


"Crime has no sex and yet to-day
I wear the brand of shame;
Whilst he amid the gay and proud
Still bears an honored name.

Can you blame me if I’ve learned to think
Your hate of vice a sham,
When you so coldly crushed me down
And then excused the man?”

These lines, from the poem “A…

Here’s a cliche question.

Who are three people- dead or alive- you’d love to have dinner with? I’ve known my answer for awhile now:

1. JK Rowling

2. Donald Glover

3. Weldon Kees

Black Crows & Bar Crawls

And they say we have monsters inside us all but I think yours just is a clever mask

Did you think of that?

Did you think of that?

Did you think of me-

On the nights you drew the mists home

Around the corners where you locked your doors.

You took me there once.

Around corners.

And locked doors.

I’m tucked away

Tobacco in blessed curled paper.



Smoked away.

I remember when that was new

And it burned.

There’s a coat of it on my throat now

I haven’t tasted raw in so damn long

I miss-


You’re front

Blunt and centered


And pass the lighter.

I’ve been writing longer poetry pieces recently

My recent struggles with sleep are a curse and a blessing. A curse, because I constantly feel like I’m running on empty, and that makes me anxious. A blessing, because despite my overwhelming amount of coursework I manage to find time to work on some poetry.

I haven’t posted any of them yet because I’m experimenting with how they flow out loud. But it feels good to get ease back into poetry a bit.

Oh, and I may have just signed up for a coffee house poetry event…

I’m not a big fan of actually reading my poetry to other people. That’s why I like the Internet, haha. I feel very, very uncomfortable when people read my writing in my presence. It’s like being naked. Actually, I think it’s worse than being naked. It’s like being emotionally naked.

I do a lot of public speaking, so that part doesn’t bother me at all. I just have a fear of exposing that shy, sensitive part of myself that leads me to write.

It’s not for another week and my stomach is already in knots.

I made a new subpage specifically for my writing.

I think it’s pretty neat, if you ask me.

The link is in the sidebar, or just click here.

I’m reading Jean Toomer’s “Cane” for class.

I love it. It’s very, very intense. I love reading Harlem Renaissance type stuff.

If you’re into stories and poetry about race and the south with a modernist twist, I would definitely recommend it.