junomore

[junomore]

let me try to write something nice, peaceful for once lol…

spring sings to the seeds in my veins and are encouraging them to sprout

i can feel the vines blossoming, small flowers embracing my blood cells and trying to take root.

green breaks skin, watered and nurtured by red as it reaches for the sky

with the sun warming my fresh sprouts, i feel connected to her, mother earth, nature and thus each other

crisp spring air fills my lungs and cleans out the old, making space and energy for the new

an old cycle is reborn, but this one is more than welcome

oh how i missed the sun

#creative writing #original poem #poetry writing #women writers #love #poem #free write #poetry #writers of tumblr #ptsd recovery

[junomore]

i want to hurt

i don’t want to be bathed in calming light and love

i don’t want to be cradled like a porcelain doll, cherished with my hair brushed through gently before being placed back on the shelf

i want to be thrown against the wall, my limbs shattering into a pathetic pile on the floor

i want to destroyed, over and over again, proven that everything bad that has happened to me has been my fault

that there was a concrete reason for all my pain

i hate the sweet things you whisper to me

i want to hear how much you hate me, how much i ruin your life and destroy any semblance of a good thing

i want to see it all go up in flames, seek out the fire and feel the burn, falling into the belief that none of it mattered anyway, even if it’s false

at least it takes the weight off my shoulders

i’m sick for wanting the pain

i know

i’m sick because i’ve never felt anything but pain

i’m sick of trying to be better

i’m sick of never being better even when i exhaust every aching fiber into trying to be better

i’m sick of only feeling pain

but the thought of a genuine “i love you” makes me sick to my stomach

im just

sick

#creative writing #original poem #poetry writing #women writers #love #bpd

[junomore]

I am blood-stained but that doesn’t mean I am still bleeding

[junomore]

i create my reality

i create my reality

i’ve always wondered why my life has reflected the songs i sing

i’ll get in my car, put on a song i love, the usual ones about heartbreak and despair. and i recall how my life has mirrored the image, like looking into the water’s surface, a pool i’ve filled with my own self prophesying tears

perhaps i am such an excellent creator, an achieved sculptor that i create the reality i most despise. so afraid of the bleak possibilities, i nervously twist my hands into clay, shaping the most wretched things my mind can make up.

i am afraid of being a fool. casting my dreams into a canvas and telling myself it’s art when the paint is spoiled, the canvas tethered and rotting.

but perhaps i quicken the rot. my words of doubt convince the paint to turn grey, the clay to molt and wither into discarded clumps.

i fear my gut is a fool. that i am a fool for following it. i fear that i am a fool for ignoring it. my distrust starts within myself, a weariness that never leaves, and sinks into every good thing that seeps through. i bet i could make the sun explode, plunge the world into darkness, deprive life, if i thought hard enough.

will i always be a miserable creator? a god so unwilling to accept love and blessings that she must cast away the good and immortalize the bad? punishing angels to hell for their mere attempt to service her?

must i always distrust the light, assuming the candle will burn out before i reach it? must i always crave the spoil, crave the lonely echoing of my chest cavity when i discover betrayal?

i speak of love and accountability, taking matters into your own hands for your happiness, your success. but i am losing my own race, dragging the limbs of my past with every step i take, relying on its weight to push me forward.

but i am exhausted. i seek the light, i seek the comfort, i seek the relief.

but i fear that i will never accept it once it’s given

#creative writing #original poem #poetry writing #women writers #love #poem #free write #writers of tumblr #poetry #womenwriters

[junomore]

I wonder who I am when no one is around

I like every shade of purple, but the royal ones are the most enchanting.

I like putting too much jewelry on.

I wish I could smell like jasmine and nag champa incense, so I hover over a bowl filled with smoke, anxiously wafting the streams of silver toward the window.

I can't wait until I live off-campus, in my own apartment, where I can burn incense all the time, unafraid of alerting the fire alarm.

I like walks in silence, my boots' crunch on snow conversing with the birds singing in the trees.

I like when I feel mystic, a shadow that slips through your hands,

Untouchable.

But I also like embodying warmth, cradling a face close to my own, whispering promises that I mean but won't keep.

I like being on a marble pedestal, seen but not heard. I also wish people listened more.

I like asking questions, about you, about the world, about the "Why?" but I grow afraid of your annoyance, so I stop pestering.

I like laughing from the deepest pit in my stomach, only few can reach their hands deep enough, but I invite everyone I meet to try.

I wonder who I am without supervision, observation. I don't think I have ever felt alone despite solitude and isolation.

I do not know how to exist on my own, without someone hovering over my shoulder, yet I hate when their hands touch my collarbone and ask if I am alright.

But I want you to ask if I'm alright. I want you to take a hammer to my walls, break open the gate and declare your arrival, but please join me with silk, a softness to your touch.

I pull the key from my chest cavity and throw it in the stream I walked past every day during quarantine, I wish you'd follow the flow until you found it.

I know I'm difficult to work with, slow to warm up to and quicker to leave, but I ask for your patience.

But maybe you should leave me be, let me discover who I am on my own. My hand aches to be held, but I know I will unsheath my claws before you can lace your fingers with mine.

I tell you I am cruel but you shake your head, you look down and chuckle, like I have said the silliest thing in the world.

I wish I could see what you see, replace my stained windows with your clear ones.

But I still wonder who I am when no one is around

#poetry writing #women writers #free write

[junomore]

i think i just want a friend

one that picks me first, that shares whispers under covers and ghost stories

a friend that worries about me and asks a penny for my thoughts, my existence radiating even in my absence

when my phone lights up, i know who they are. and when i need someone i know exactly who to turn to

it’s strange growing up on your own, knowing that nobody else is watching your back, evergreen eyes stapled to the back of your head. you get into relationships you’re not ready for, arguments that don’t need to be had, just to feel the passion of protection.

i grew up hoping to be someone’s “person” and after years of healing, i realized that i still crave that, and perhaps i always will

but i still stand alone, perhaps i was made to walk alone. though i endlessly search for that special someone to call a friend, maybe it is hopeless. a nomad, a widow, i must walk alone

#poetry #womenwriters #creative writing

[junomore]

My feet are always cold

Glaciers cement me to the arctic ground and I can’t stop my teeth from chattering

The current below swirls, white spirals of chance, opportunity

Fear

The wind pushes me forwards, shoving my face into the sheet of ice until my breath begins to melt it away

I peer into the chaos, the rush below

I imagine the rush is what it feels like to die

I plunge my fist into the cold, bitter frost chews away at my warm flesh

Invigorating

I reach deeper into the abyss, shoving myself into the unknown

Before I can pull myself up, the flow swallows my arm up to my shoulder, the cold reaching my chest

But it feels good, refreshing

With a taste of crisp death on my tongue, I let the water swallow me whole

I melt away

#original poem #poem #womenwriters #poetry #creative writing #free write

[junomore]

Today I was peeing in a public restroom and overhead a bunch of women with babies st the basins talking about how much they wished genderless toilets existed because it would make caring for children all that much easier.

Their arguments was that caring for children is easier when you can have two parents nearby, especially when you need to manage multiple children. Not only that, another one added, but sometimes single fathers need to help little daughters go to the toilet and are faced with the choice of 1) occupying the disabled people toilet or 2) risking taking their little girls into men's restrooms and having her see someone at a urinal because that's the only way they can keep a proper eye on them. And another one complained that sometimes she needs to change her crying baby's diaper while her little girl needs to go to - and all of this would be easier if only mums and dads were allowed in the same spaces at the same time.

And all I could think about while I finished peeing and heard this was that genderless public restrooms are a female need and would probably be an unanimously held feminist demand (similarly to reproductive rights) if it wasn't for radfems who are so gassed by their hatred towards men and trans people that they refuse to move forward with what should be a very simple and reasonable demand.

[junomore]

i feel rage

in honor of the times we live in: i feel rage

I feel rage

I feel rage for my mother, who had an abortion when she was barely in her twenties. The Woman plagued by misogyny and mistrust from the start, a painful torture “gifted” to her by her father. Who’s mother said “if you weren’t such a slut, your father wouldn’t touch you”.

I feel rage against my father, who beat her and lied in another woman’s bed while I was in my mother’s womb. Who’s side the police took when my mother had enough, and brandished a golf club in self defense. “Do you want us to haul your ass to prison?” Was said to my mother, the bloodied, bruised, and battered Woman.

I feel rage

I feel rage for my sister, who never announced the sins and crimes done unto her body until I shared my own. “I’ll have to drive outside of the state to get a new IUD, they are shutting down the planned parenthoods here” she says with an annoyed sigh, she’s been fighting this too long, she can’t give another ounce of care, else she’ll break.

I feel rage

I feel rage for the grandmother I never got to meet. Who’s history isn’t spoken too much about. But the story of a glacial storm in Wisconsin, her slippers in the snow while her heart iced over as she stared at her eldest son. “You will not come into this house” she speaks, knowing the woman he shared a bed with was not his wife. I wonder if she knew that his sick-ridden relationship with infidelity only began there

I feel rage

I feel rage for my younger self. Who was fresh into high school and hoping for acceptance. Who involved herself into an unrequited love with a boyfriend. “Crazy”,“you’re blowing this out of proportion”, “if you bring this up again, we’re done”, he spat at her, while she sobbed in the passenger seat after finding out his unfaithfulness and hatred towards her. She didn’t know that she deserved better, she believed every word she says.

I feel rage against that boy. Who still speaks ill of me after years of my absence. “She was abusive”, he states, insistent on his innocence and dedication to her. “She was crazy”, his audience nods, unbeknownst of me.

I feel rage that I fell into the trap that my mother fell into. I feel rage that I’m pushed to be ashamed for falling into the trap made for my mother and I. Boys will be boys. Blood-stained teeth behind sickly sweet smiles. Hands made to hold and caress, now bruised and cracked against smooth cheeks and weeping eyes. Hands that split thighs with no care, no delight, only pure greed and hunger. I feel rage that the Woman must feel this dishonor.

I feel rage that he can still run with innocence, knocking teeth together in bars and shout to young girls down the street. He can take away the Woman’s rights and claim purity. “It’s for God”, he claims, but the hypocrisy lies in the crimson children lying in schools, the children violated in foster homes, and the children who are still lacking their formula.

“Children are a gift from the Lord; they are a reward from him.” But dare they be a daughter or get in the way of their wealth, they shall be sent for slaughter.

I feel a rage that is so deep and innate. This gift is mistaken for no Goddess but a God. She carried and groomed, sobbed and ached, loved with blood and insides. Disgustingly ravishing in the aftermath, she lies, knowing her effort will be rewarded to God. Is this what Mary felt?

I feel a rage that is thrashing, a gnashing of teeth. A sight so vulgar and unclean, God would turn away. I want to maim and slaughter for my daughter, who I don’t wish to carry into this world. I don’t want her to feel this rage, a caged animal. I want to ruin, my velvet gloves around their iron throats. I want to look before Lilith and pray for her honor. I want to fight for victory, so I can sit at the throne and sit with peace. I want to vomit up this rage and place it on the mantle, settled in newer times, my rage a distant memory.

I no longer want to feel this rage, but I must recognize my weapon in this battle for peace

#roe v wade #roe vs. wade #womens rights #reproductive health #reproductive rights #reproductive justice #feminism #inequality #democracy #politics

[junomore]

appetite

they say beauty is in the eye of the beholder, god must have made me from vanity. with a quip of my tongue, you’ll be charmed, anxious to fall into my arms and feel my warm skin, digging into bone as if i’m your very own savior. you see him in me don’t you? they say i have a way with my words, how intense and gratifying my sweet soft echoes seem, they crawl into my mouth behind my teeth and lace my jaw shut with their charred veins. i am light, i am love, i sooth their open wounds without trying, listen intently with interest. they scoop up my stomachs contents with metal spoons, scraping my esophagus and leaving their own marks on the way out. they sip and drink my stomach acid and are shocked when it burns. but you are beauty, you are grace, you were made in god’s face, how could you burn? i realize that they do not think i am human. that i am an ever loving being, only here for them. their twisted manic pixie dream girl to use up before i replenish for the next solemn traveler. i am perfection, yet not perfect for anybody. they make my body and mind a home without my permission. their troubles spill from their teeth without my request to open wide. and when they have healed from god’s grace, they head onto the next. but my stomach is left empty, my hunger overbearing, i search for food. i stumble across more, people anxious to know me, i think this time will be different, i charm myself into believing. but once i see their ravaged teeth, rotten from acid, i understand that they are all the same, travelers searching for their home, yet i am not their destination, just a stop to refuel along the way. i may be beauty and i may be safety but i will never be loved for anything else, nor will these people ever bother to feed me

i’ve lost my appetite

#poetry #women writers #poetry writing #creative writing

[junomore]

leading with love never came natural to me. fear, hatred, and disgust ruled my being. a doe caught in the scope of a killer, despite being told i was supposed to feel loved. a woman should be protected, cared for by the strong arms of a man, yet i felt their enveloping hands crush my brittle bones as if i were a small bird, my wings clipped by the very men that vowed they loved me. broken, i thought, misshapen from birth. i considered myself cruel and cold, incapable of loving or trusting.

under the moon, in water painted with milk and honey did i realize that i love women. i’ve always loved women. from the feminine energies of the moon i’ve worshipped since youth and the water that flows and billows around my frame, to ice cream stickiness of a youthful summer, i’ve loved women. the pieces began to glue themselves. every glance, every jealous flicker of my eyes, was through twisted and forbidden love. a love that i forbade as “just not for me”, i realized i was so lonely and so full of bitterness. i wondered how could a man see a woman and see a tool, a tool to be bled dry until her hands are too weak to wrap around herself, an object to be torn apart with brute force, pomegranate slipping through careless fingers as he divides and conquers, a war that must be savagely won. these desperate questions were brought from my own love of women, how i saw them as nothing but whole beings with so much love and strength, rejuvenation and resilience at her core, an everlasting embodiment of creation herself. how could such power be mistaken for weakness? envy must lie in his bones, he can live with that.

i want to cradle and protect her, i want to give her the world. i want to bleed for her, tear my flesh from muscle to feed her in dire times. i want to sacrifice every part of my being for her. i have loved her since i was 5, seeing her glowing face on screens, in magazines. her gaze upon me in the faces of my classmates, friends, and strangers. i have seen her in my dreams, felt her hands caress the deepest parts of me. i have shown her the light in my soul, the raw energy i carry in my vessel. how could i have ever questioned that she was always the one for me?

now i lead with love, for her, and because she has always given me permission, for myself as well

#poem #original poem #sapphic #wlw community #wlw concepts #wlw love #wlw #writing #writers of tumblr #short prompt

[junomore]

it was easy for me to write off having children. my mother always joked that our genes were poison, the start of an apocalypse, “don’t end the world for us with your spawn” she would cackle. she was right, she is right. we are riddled with illness, both with mind and body, and the sick cannot take care of the sick. i’d be a wretched mother, my temper too short and cruel for a small being unknowing how to exist yet, my depressive episodes that last too long, past the point of starvation for the little one as my illness cares for no other but itself, not even me, and the wicked lessons i’ve learned from my mother—i could never repeat.

and with this rapidly decaying world, i was at peace knowing i would never bring a child into it. how could i? the forests are dying, we are poisoning our waters and airs, toxic metals run into every bloodstream on this planet, how could i do that to another human being? to convict a child of a lifetime on this planet would be the cruelest punishment.

god forbid i have a daughter, what was once a dream of pigtails, pink and yellow fabrics, cherry-sweet smiles, and honey —is now a nightmare of birth control, abusive boyfriends, unfair trials blaming her, and a lack of body autonomy. i would scratch my throat out with my nails before subjecting my daughter to that reality.

but every so often, i catch myself dreaming of them. my children, that i have nothing but love and care for. how i would teach them to care for their money, to earn it. i would let them eat snacks before dinner because you should listen to your body when it’s hungry. i’d cradle them in the night when they cried, whispering that they’d never be too old to come to their mother for help. i’d teach them how to respect their bodies and others, that consent is needed for every kind of touch. i’d give them every utensil they could ask for, paintbrushes, guitars, sneakers, tennis rackets, books, and bikes, whatever vices they like. i’d give them permission to go for their dreams, to love themselves more than anything, because it’s their life i care about. i would hope that they dreamed bigger and better than i ever did at their age, i’d cheer and cry from the stands for their successes. i would love and fight for them with every fiber of my selfless being.

but it isn’t selfless is it? knowing the horrors of this world and ignoring it enough for 9 months of ignorant bliss would be the most selfish harm i could do to someone. having a child is a selfish dream for me at the end of the day.

in another life, i quietly whisper, i will do these things with you my love.

#poetry writing #original poem #love #writers of tumblr #women writers

[junomore]

unfair



it’s unfair that she was given a clean plate, one she could fill with her own desires, her own hopes and dreams. pure spring water was poured into her chalice while spit was drooled into mine. my plate was covered in maggots and flies as soon as i sat at the table. rotten sludge and piss splayed on its surface, i was given heapings of spoiled meat and bloodied carcass. while she lifted her glass to her rosy blushed lips with porcelain skin, my scabbed and dirtied hands gripped my own, raising to my rotten mouth, i struggle to drink from salvation and optimism.



she wipes her mouth with silken cloth, rubs her hands down her laced thighs, “what a meal!” she exclaims, “you didn’t finish?” she questions. well how could i? i’m sick from the smell alone, how could my appetite ever be as ferocious as hers? she has never known rot, never tasted the bittersweetness of spoil, how could i even enjoy a delicacy with that taste still in my mouth? “you’re selfish,” she claims. her optimism and assumption of equal appetite pierces my flesh, seeps into my bones and into my burning core. i want to bring her to me, isolate her in my flames, make her feel the rot, the anguish, the agony inside of me, but i let go.



i wipe my mouth with my sleeve, clear my throat and smile, “i will wait for the next meal”, i whisper to her shadow, hoping, praying, begging that the next meal the chef brings will be sweet.

#poetry writing #original poem #poem #women writers #writing #creative writing #writers of tumblr

[junomore]

sometimes i think i’ll die of loneliness

that the rot will consume me, eat my flesh away as i watch, considering if there was any other way this would end up

i’m sure it would have been different if i took the leap, connected the bridges and put down my torch

but my blood is gasoline and you’ve cut me, slit my skin like a lame animal, hunted

i’d rather burn than bleed out by your hand

#original poem #poetry #loneliest #love #writeblr #writing #women writers #short prompt

[junomore]

scrunching my face real hard rn

[junomore]

joyce and hopper kissed 😌 twice 🥰 and sadie sink was amazing. the rest of it 🤨 well

[junomore]

i feel rage

in honor of the times we live in: i feel rage

I feel rage

I feel rage for my mother, who had an abortion when she was barely in her twenties. The Woman plagued by misogyny and mistrust from the start, a painful torture “gifted” to her by her father. Who’s mother said “if you weren’t such a slut, your father wouldn’t touch you”.

I feel rage against my father, who beat her and lied in another woman’s bed while I was in my mother’s womb. Who’s side the police took when my mother had enough, and brandished a golf club in self defense. “Do you want us to haul your ass to prison?” Was said to my mother, the bloodied, bruised, and battered Woman.

I feel rage

I feel rage for my sister, who never announced the sins and crimes done unto her body until I shared my own. “I’ll have to drive outside of the state to get a new IUD, they are shutting down the planned parenthoods here” she says with an annoyed sigh, she’s been fighting this too long, she can’t give another ounce of care, else she’ll break.

I feel rage

I feel rage for the grandmother I never got to meet. Who’s history isn’t spoken too much about. But the story of a glacial storm in Wisconsin, her slippers in the snow while her heart iced over as she stared at her eldest son. “You will not come into this house” she speaks, knowing the woman he shared a bed with was not his wife. I wonder if she knew that his sick-ridden relationship with infidelity only began there

I feel rage

I feel rage for my younger self. Who was fresh into high school and hoping for acceptance. Who involved herself into an unrequited love with a boyfriend. “Crazy”,“you’re blowing this out of proportion”, “if you bring this up again, we’re done”, he spat at her, while she sobbed in the passenger seat after finding out his unfaithfulness and hatred towards her. She didn’t know that she deserved better, she believed every word she says.

I feel rage against that boy. Who still speaks ill of me after years of my absence. “She was abusive”, he states, insistent on his innocence and dedication to her. “She was crazy”, his audience nods, unbeknownst of me.

I feel rage that I fell into the trap that my mother fell into. I feel rage that I’m pushed to be ashamed for falling into the trap made for my mother and I. Boys will be boys. Blood-stained teeth behind sickly sweet smiles. Hands made to hold and caress, now bruised and cracked against smooth cheeks and weeping eyes. Hands that split thighs with no care, no delight, only pure greed and hunger. I feel rage that the Woman must feel this dishonor.

I feel rage that he can still run with innocence, knocking teeth together in bars and shout to young girls down the street. He can take away the Woman’s rights and claim purity. “It’s for God”, he claims, but the hypocrisy lies in the crimson children lying in schools, the children violated in foster homes, and the children who are still lacking their formula.

“Children are a gift from the Lord; they are a reward from him.” But dare they be a daughter or get in the way of their wealth, they shall be sent for slaughter.

I feel a rage that is so deep and innate. This gift is mistaken for no Goddess but a God. She carried and groomed, sobbed and ached, loved with blood and insides. Disgustingly ravishing in the aftermath, she lies, knowing her effort will be rewarded to God. Is this what Mary felt?

I feel a rage that is thrashing, a gnashing of teeth. A sight so vulgar and unclean, God would turn away. I want to maim and slaughter for my daughter, who I don’t wish to carry into this world. I don’t want her to feel this rage, a caged animal. I want to ruin, my velvet gloves around their iron throats. I want to look before Lilith and pray for her honor. I want to fight for victory, so I can sit at the throne and sit with peace. I want to vomit up this rage and place it on the mantle, settled in newer times, my rage a distant memory.

I no longer want to feel this rage, but I must recognize my weapon in this battle for peace