Author: Sloane Eliot

Sloane Eliot is a piece of fiction living some kind of reality in Brooklyn. You can find her on Tumblr and Twitter most days.

birthday poem.

i am 29 today & sitting in a park alone.
i am feeling a lot of self pity
and because my boyfriend skipped town.

he is 27. i don’t like him very much sometimes.

i am eating almonds while sitting in a park alone.
i turned 29 today and mostly just ran errands.
i’m sitting in a park alone and looking at an unopened pack of cigarettes.
i’m thinking about smoking one of the cigarettes.

i wonder if smoking in a park is rude and i notice that the closest people to me are a group of schizophrenics, about 10 yards away.
(just kidding – i don’t know how far a yard is)

i think that the schizophrenics are “harshing my vibe”
and immediately feel bad for thinking it.
my vibe is self-pity.

i smell someone smoking weed.
i think about smoking weed.

i think about that period of time in my life two years ago in DC where i did a lot of drugs and drank every day.
i was unhappy and in love with someone who didn’t love me.
he wore a lot of black.

i am unhappy now in New York and in love with someone who may or may not love me.
he wears a lot of black.

i start planning all the places i will go without him as revenge.

he sent me $200 via PayPal to apologize for leaving on my birthday. i thought, “what am i supposed to do with this?”

the night before he left he was fucking me and said:

let’s get married
let’s own property together
let’s raise little mixed-race babies.

i thought that was a weird thing to say while your dick was inside someone.

we almost had a baby once. a month and two days ago we stopped almost having a baby. he said, “how do i even know it was mine?”

it was a cruel thing to say.

i think that our babies would be beautiful. and fucked.
i think that maybe we should not raise little mixed-race babies.
i wonder if he thinks about race while he is fucking me, and what it means if he does.

i am 29 today and feeling a lot of self pity.
i am sitting alone in a park and the sun is starting to set.

casual sex.

i can only write half-crying on my iphone,
lying in bed in the dead of night, brain awake
from prescription drugs that make me a better person

i can only write to you with letter-u’s;
small signifiers to tell you that it’s no big deal
we only write
in half-sentences
in stream-of-consciousness IMs
one
at
a
time

what is the emotional significance of
our purposefully flawed
juvenile
communications?
it’s no big deal.

remember that time in your bed
huge bong rips;
such an ugly phrase
fish lips inside the glass;
it’s no big deal.

i think of the rotting plate
of mac and cheese
casually placed in the corner of your room,
unassuming;
it’s no big deal.

i feel my throat tighten in bed
and pick up my phone to write

cervical downslide.

shiny (slimy) pink innards pulsing
peroxide spray foaming, then
scrape, scrape, scrape

i don’t know which one of you rat bastards is responsible for this,
my demise

i hope for a long, lucid death, 15  pounds lighter,
all sunken cheeks to haunt your catholic guilt for years to come

buy me a beer ‘cause you feel bad
for poisoning me quicker, but i thank you
(i always wanted to go out in style)

feel the loss of parts of me,
bit by bit i shut down, lose feeling, scrape at unfamiliar ceilings,
remembering an adolescence ill spent by controlling parents
and too much love to give

Come to the House of Hades.

we come up with leitmotifs for our lives
some just fall into our laps
like my mermaids
or your vampires
some we choose,
like my fire, my cyborgs,
or your death & dying.

my cyborg mermaids are on fire.
your vampires are dead & dying.

my cyborg mermaids hunt you down,
they seduce you while feeling nothing
then light you on fire.

your vampires are already dead,
but they’ll die some more at my hands
when i light them on fire.

we are knives.
we cut one another.

my robot sirens want to burn your undead.
listen to our siren song,
no less sad than sweet.
the end of our song is death.
(we have that much in common.)

I am a digital Persephone, written in code
my cybernetic sirens sing my songs of doom.

I am the kidnapped queen of the underworld
you are the Stockholm Syndrome king of my desire, Hades.

we’ve evolved, this is some next level shit.

I am not the cyborg mermaids, but their queen.
you are not the death-wish vampires, but their god.

together, we bring death.
we combine our power & are unstoppable.

I eat pomegranate seeds from your palm.
we feast on the fruit of the dead.

come to the house of Hades and dread Persephone
& pay tribute to our throne.

we are destruction, death, & decay.
we are hate, which outweighs love,
& hope, which outweighs hate.

every 6 months I burst forth to the surface of the earth
my loins bear hope and harvest.
I keep us alive.
I give birth to us, again and again.
we crawl out of my womb.

we are rubies & gold in knife hilts.
we are constantly stabbing each other to death.
we are constantly dying & reborn.