Junebugs

Junie / Bugs / Junebug / Juniper / June / Juniper Berrie

Lover of all forms of art and human expression, poet by medium.

Feel free to send me poetry requests at any time!!! I have developed my own forms of poetry and exercises, and absolutely love a chance to help people feel seen.

Specific info about me below :))

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The frolicking Ferret, henceforth called Friar,

had just lit the match of an endless wick of

fire. He did this, spinning and jumping

just as his kin did, when

he opened sappy eyes to a world most

wilted.

The fire within the weasel grew, now,, and it

stood true that now Mr. Friar must be. To must

be is a big task for a little Ferret like he -

But he bounds away, he jumps and hunts anyway,

though his eyes still as sapp'ed as they were made.

His fire turns to say it must, his way must roar

so he might live to watch the sun set yet again,

he hunts his birds and mice, remembering to look

but twice at the eyes of pain within his prey.

Friar knows to consume is to live in his own

I don't think that I will have my domestication day.

Too much time spent among the birds and bugs and clay.

Too many conversations, with the greens and the grays.

Feral now, half witted, half sure of a demise,

I'd be a damsel if it weren't for the twigs

Just. Ever.

Transfeminine?

Leftist to the tits?

Hypermobile? (Yoga/ Sun Tai Chi)

Into strategy assessment? (Chess, MMA)

Into mobility sports? (Ballet, Gymnastics, Base/Softball)

Into Poetry, Audiobooks, or Wikipedia?🤤

Into Activism as it relates to education, antifascism, or queer acceptance?

Or,, someone who would bum me a cigarette after an after-after party, let me cry towards you, let me paint your bedroom walls with hastily made dyes and spit laced gin, let me leave my lipstick on every 4" of mirror, and then never ever attempt to contact me again,

I have lived my entire life empathetic. I cry so easy at so very many things. Books, movies, shows and tunes. But I've spent 22 years hidden away, you see. I've watched and heard, and I learned to never care.

Struck by men who callously dared me to be. Shown bodies and blood and worse, this loving child with wilting belief. I preferred the song of doves,, the jays,, the ones I couldn't name but I knew the noise of.

Men forced me to know. Women forced me to act. The Juniper girl never got to sit. Never got to unwind or unlearn, block noise or sound. I asked how to sleep at Seven years old,, never to get that answer told to me.

A full, nice, complete sleep through night, still still STILL escapes me. My true to come blight. When I exhaust to sleep I will tremble and shake again. Awaken in fear to somewhere I've been. Still I sit here.

June sits ready to quake or to cry.

For I know that now I too am

My stomach twists as my skin lays bare. Soft

and willing, unclutched and desperate

for you. Your hands to be cracked, calloused,,

finally reaching for your favorite texture.

Finally across the feral river, you'd arrive

to my altar of stone.

You'd chance a hand, or lips, or

just say something, sure of it too.

My moons would eclipse,

my throat would be free.

Now, though, my arms lie alone.

I await in sickness my knight, a hero

of a lover, more like a dangerous thunder-y

man - conversed with

Hilda, who had simply in strife kept her

passions in hand. A glass boned lass

of an immaculate kind.

Vanessa born when she sat, and she

all in sudden all but knew -

Hilda Todya told her true,

when she made those glass

bones cry.

<3

I sing that June in the bones is a better

life than submitting to that August Wind.

To fall in life as I do best, tumbling forward but

keeping a beat and breath.

A beat to the trouble, and a voice that is

truly just and of June, and mine.

A poem told me once that I could not

see the ocean waves. At least all at once

in just one day. To be prepared is to know my

fear, to fight on my back and to handle

the jeers. The words I say

are a shame, it's true. Yet my only

regret remains, the pain of not

having known.

Not having known to love, or known to speak,

or that my voice still lies hid behind slanted

teeth. That my ankle did not heal like I

thought that it would. My neck has

been altered by years of still lakes.

But the water, before the ripple, must open

to a shake. To a drop of something new, a

watering from above.

Nightmares, and nightmares, and nightmares.

Nightmares, then nightmares, then nightmares.

Nightmares, next nightmare, then nightmares.

And the shame they bring is that I did not hear

my just and changing wind.

But I've said enough, I suppose.

I will learn to hold the violence until

comes from all the angles?

I fear sight, and I react to sound,, what

does this make of Miss Worry-Bound?

A sad little frail thing,, to eat is to endorse the pain,

to sing is to forget my singers, and my mother

must have lost my name.

A scared thing, clutching at others to find a thing of

hope. A tasteless fickle girl, who feels all

sorts of "Worse".

The throat caught, barbed'in'wire gal,

the lover yet to stick her name to any letter,,

Juniper, the voiceless, the meek and the graceful

June, the one who sings in tune with Earth,,

She sits as Junie too, sometimes. The pain

just has some worth.