Four Poems by Sloane Eliot
oxytocin waste of time
on the sonogram, our mistake looked like an eclipse
it felt like staring at the sun
i looked until i was blind
(turned out there was nothing to see)
play it again
i have you on repeat
recalling one drunken night
your head in my lap
on a brooklyn bound L train
mumbling that you love me
before: 30 stories above times square
in the rain
drunk and alone with you
your mouth on my neck telling lies
the bar is empty except for us
move to bushwick, why don’t you
I see on Instagram that you’re moving to New York with a new girl and I guess I’m happy for you but you never respond when I message you now and I know I will run into you around the neighborhood now and you’ll never respond then either.
I know my current beau will see you and recognize himself in you and I’m flooded with the cold fear that you will become friends.
I’m unhappy all the time now, just like I was with you, and beginning to think that’s just my “type”. You who are volatile and you who wear black and you who make me feel like less and less and less and less and less and less and less.
One day I will rise against you, both of you, screeching into the sky from some murky depths on the back of an amphibious hell beast, sword raised, screaming streams of angry blood, projectile vomiting blood into your faces until it fills your throats and your nostrils and your stupid weak lungs. You’ll see my glistening power as the water falls away from me, bursting out of the ocean like some nightmare reverse plane crash, the memory of me coming for you in your sleep, my frail frame and my thick thighs becoming phantom limbs in your twilight sleep when you reach for me without thinking and later wonder, “why”?
liveblogging a probable emotional breakdown is fun
literally everything is bad
my phone’s gonna die and then I’ll have to get up and then what will I do?
sometimes I feel gross eating meat, but other times I feel powerful.
I ordered a burger awhile ago but it’s not here yet
I feel like getting up or moving or watching something or eating food or interacting with fellow humans might be nice but really all I can seem to do right now is look at my phone and press reblog
that one time I was sitting on a subway platform by myself and just started crying uncontrollably.
About the author:
Sloane Eliot is a piece of fiction living some kind of reality in Brooklyn. You can find her on Tumblr and Twitter most days.
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