thejunipertree: (Default)
Goddamnit, leave me alone.
I can smell you in the air around me. No one else carries that scent but you.

You successfully razed my face from your heart and my name from your lips long ago.
Now leave me be, I'm of no use to you.
thejunipertree: (Default)
Logged into my Angelfire email account just now, to clear it out of any trash which may have been lurking. I don't use this account very often, but keep it around anyway.

Everything which I had been storing in there: various old and important emails which had been sent to me years ago, codes to webrings, other things, etc. They're all gone. Every single one of them.

This is kind of distressing. Some of the things I had in there were the only reminder I had of long dead friendships. Like of the crazy, drug addled neurologist that I used to speak to (even though I'd kick him if I saw him on the street, I still liked to keep his emails. They were a bit of security I had. Blackmail, if you will. heh.) I also lost the few emails I had left from the Antichrist. These were ones from the mid-point of our relationship, right before I switched ISPs.


I also had emails from current friends, things that I would have wished to keep. For posterity. For memories. I had a lovely poem that Ghoulie had written for an ex-boyfriend of hers.

thejunipertree: (Default)
It has become very obvious to me that love is really only a measure of how much pain a person can inflict upon you. The more you love someone, the more they can hurt you.

And I'm not talking little piddling kind of hurt. I speak of the big pain. Capital P. Wounds. Scars. Crippled fucking hearts. The same kind of pain that left me in a gibbering pile of sobs and snot when I was 17. When I didn't eat for two weeks straight, existing only on cigarettes (THREE packs a day) and pink lemonade. The same hurt that caused me to turn from the one who cared about me the most in this world, turn and ran straight into the arms of another person who would inflict wound upon wound on my already beaten and battered skin.

Thinking back on it now, I was only running because I was wounded. And because I saw the stability that the Cheshire Cat offered me. The stability that scared the shit out of me. I've never been the sort of character who wanted that type of thing. I've always wanted explosion and dum dum bullets riccoheting off the walls. I've wanted an adversary, an equal. Someone who always kept me guessing.

The Cheshire Cat couldn't offer me that, bless his sweet heart. And neither could Richard, though I fooled myself into believing he could. I still don't have it. And that thought leaves me shaking to my very bones because I don't wish to cause the same pain on the Engineer as has been brought onto me.

It would seem that the only people who I've ever truly given myself over to were the ones who inflicted the most soul crushing pain. The liars. The cheaters. The boys who made me feel stupid and worthless. The ones who were light years ahead of me. And when they disappeared for good, I was left on the floor. Bleeding, panting, and broken.

And craving even more.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

A month ago I would have told you that while I was over Richard, I still loved him deeply. Now, after speaking to him at length this week (goddamn you unemployment), he only leaves me cold. Sad that I'm not the same girl who fell in love with him. And disappointed at what he did to me. But still, cold.

There's nothing left in my chest for him. The thought of him doesn't gives me a twinge anymore, except of annoyance at the lies he dropped on my flighty little skull. However, thoughts of the Antichrist will reduce me to a blithering wreck. Memories of Chris will send me into a depression for weeks.

But, the wounds from Richard seem to be closing over. They're not the deep and scarring knife edges that I once thought they were. If this maturity? Or yet another sickness festering away inside the rot I call a brain?

I say it again: What the fuck is wrong with me?

And why am I so scared of stability?

A Dream:

Apr. 14th, 2002 04:03 pm
thejunipertree: (Default)
The Engineer, the Priest They Called Him, Stefanie, and her husband Justin were all heading to Scotland, Glasgow to be specific, for reasons unremembered by the dreamer, which is me.

Looking out the window, I almost always demand a window seat, out into the sky. The sensation of my stomach dropping and the sun warm on my face. And I think about how much I love to fly. I also think about Scotland and the people who I know there. The stomach dropping feeling isn't entirely because I'm thousands of miles off the ground. It's also because I dread seeing any of these people because of what condition my heart will be in afterward.

Touchdown in Glasgow. This airport is as familiar to me as my own hands. I know its in's and out's. There is the spot by the window where I held back tears and paranoia of no one showing to pick me up. There is where we hugged goodbye, both times I did this. I point these out to the Priest They Called Him. He smiles sadly at me and calls me his gothic little kitten, as he is wont to give me strange and silly pet names.

Blurring, blurring. We are by the sea. Justin and Stef are off doing their own things. And there is a storm. At the edge of the water, everything is so enormous. I feel tiny and threatened by the sheer size of it. Wind and waves, the roar of the ocean in my ears. It mirrors back to the time when I stood here in a Turkish coffee night and could experience nothing but air in my face and the water's sounds. Dread, primordial fear of the deep, fills my limbs. I want to leave, but I can't.

There is an underground cafe by the ocean. The booth we sit in has a view of the water, which my eyes can not stray from. I keep watch over it, vigilant because I know that it could, at any time, break through the thin barrier and kill us all.

More blurring. Faces and voices run together. I decide to visit the Antichrist's family, who in this dream, live in Glasgow. They both remember me, which is surprising as they each only met me once and I look vastly different now. Nervousness makes me tap my fingers against the table. I'm afraid of running into him, of our pasts crossing.

I had meant to type "paths" instead of "pasts", but I like it better that way. More suitable, in my own eyes.

Back to the dream. I am alone, the Engineer and TPTCH aren't with me anymore. They're off on their own, somewhere. And I'm wandering the streets outside of the Antichrist's parents' house with a sick feeling in my breast. I've had this dream before, I realise. Standing on a street corner, with my hand on the pole of a stop light, I see him. And before I turn my face away, he sees me as well.

He looks good. Not completely bald, there is a small amount of brownish hair growing on his head. A huge difference from the Bic smoothness that I remember. I know that it would feel cat soft if I were to brush my fingers over it. It would feel like Emperor Nympho's nose.

He calls my name, half incredulous that I'm there. That I'm existing in his space. It's no secret that I'm not allowed to step foot in the UK anymore due to immigration woes. Surprise at him recognising the fact that I'm there, I'd half expected him to turn away. To ignore me.

Blurring. He's with a friend, who's name is escaping me. It's not any of his friends whom I met before. We speak of small things, safe things. We speak of things which don't hurt either of us. I tell him of the lover I had after him, the one who also lives nearby and who I don't wish to run into. I leave out the part of how I had been wishing I didn't see him, either. To tell him would be hateful, and I harbour no such feelings towards him.

He smiles uncomfortably and ducks his head, in the same fashion that I remember so well. We walk together and talk about small, insignifacant things. The entire time, the knowledge of I'm soon to miss my plane is in the back of my head. Clock hands sweep past and I ignore them. If I miss it, I'll just get another flight. Carrie did it, on her return trip from NYC, why can't I? I try to forget the fact that I have very little money in my purse. I hope against all hope that it won't cost that much.

The Engineer is there, suddenly. Hair on his head, I suppose there can be only one bald man in my dreams at a time, eh? I invite him to come along with us, but he's hesitating. I don't blame him for this, I would do the same if in his shoes. But, the flight's been missed and we have no choices left to us. Stef and Justin apparently made the plane, so did TPTCH. We go back to the Antichrist's friend's apartment to wait until the next departure.


I wake up.
thejunipertree: (Default)

A brief moment of my hands smelling like him.

Ordinarily, it wouldn't be considered strange.
However, I haven't seen him nor touched him in
a small number of years.
thejunipertree: (Default)
Another cigarette.
With my hood pulled over my face, I am the blind girl. I can sit here and dream of things that never were. Even if I do sincerely remember.


I remember dancing through the streets of London, singing accompianment to him and the passerby amusement. The night sky of Piccadilly Circus was like nothing I'd ever seen before, though at the same time, it remained heartbreakingly familar.

I remember London. It exists, if only inside my head. I echo our words, soft and under breath, from that night.
Oh, give me a home...

London, the bitch queen of cities. Carrie may have her New York City, but my home has always been in London. As much as I hate it now, it still reverberates throughout my skin.

I'd like to think that one day, I'll return to it. See the ravens and the watchtowers. I'd like to think that. But, I doubt it will ever come to pass.

I remember his face, cold and pale. It rose above the collar of his King Mob coat like the waxing moon on a November night. I remember his smile, though I haven't seen it since.

Flash backwards, to a younger girl. A younger time. Everything is green and I sit on a swingset, dragging my feet. He sits by me, whispering little songs that only
my ears can decipher. 'You are written on the underside of my skin', I say to him. Jump frog, jump.

I know somehow that he does not remember this night. No memory of how I sighed and continually turned my face away, so he wouldn't be able to read the desire imprinted upon it. He holds my hand, sometimes. I remember his smile, though I haven't seen it in quite some time.

Flash forward a small bit, one or maybe even two years. We stand on a sand dune, quietly alone with a blanket wrapped round our shoulders. Struck dumb by his senseless beauty and the utterly foreign concept that someone of his stature would be enamoured with small, stunted me.

He speaks of rollarcoasters and butterflies. My stomach ties itself in knots, as his kiss unties my mouth. The sky swirls heady all around me and I want nothing more than for him to devour me.

I remember his smile, though only when I look at his photograph. I'll never see that again, however. He is as lost to me as London and my heart.

The three. My trinity of hopebreakers.

I can only take comfort in the fact that they each, in turn, allowed me to warm my hands and face by their fires.

Even if they didn't know it, they kept me warm. However brief it was. I give them up to the passing of time, the ticking of clocks. And turn myself towards the future. Whatever that may bring.
thejunipertree: (Default)
It's strange, how after so very long I still
dream of people that I don't care to be dreaming

They make me sad. Fragments of a life that
could have been, but wasn't. Mostly due to my
own shortcomings and failure to live up to
images and ideals set of me.

I regret nothing. But, it's still sad.

I wonder if he ever dreams of me. And what is
contained in those dreams, if they do happen.
Or if it truly is what it appears to be and
I just do not exist for him anymore.

Things like this could drive me mad if I focused
on them for a long enough period of time.

Therefore, I shall not.
thejunipertree: (Default)
The Wee One (do you like that, didja? didja?)
came over for a visit today, as I am (alledgely)
on my death bed. Swoon. Mope. Swan about the
house looking pale and consumptive.

We had an interesting discussion, as we are
prone to doing when you get the two of us to
be serious for more than five seconds. The
conversation, due to our mutual problems,
involved love.

She asked me that if I ever found out in some
way that Darren had changed his mind and truly
wanted me in his life, as his heart, would I
go back to him? I pondered for a few seconds,
because this is something valid that I've
tortured myself with in past late night musings.

The answer being: no.

The reasons being: I lost myself in him. To such
a degree that it terrified me. My happiness rode
solely on his own. My sun rose and set on
whether or not he smiled. I debased myself for
him. I cowered and wheedled and begged. I
was not me. I became a doormat, a dish rag.
I poured every ounce of myself into him, knowing
I would get barely anything in return.

I don't want to be that person ever again. It
wasn't me, only a pale shadow of the person
that I am.

And I believe that's why I behave in the manner
that I do now. Why I hold myself back so much,
afraid to give in completely to any one person.
I don't want to lose myself again.

I catch myself doing it, every so often. Repeating
the same dance steps as before. I send little-
girl-voice emails to Orphan, sidling up for
his affections. I throw myself at Richard's feet,
in a bid for attention.

And in the same vein, sometimes even in the same
breath-I pull away. I hide. I cover my face and
become someone else.

I don't know where I'm trying to go with this,
really. I suppose I'm tired of being such a
fragmented person. Personality wise, I'm highly
independant. I want to make my own rules and
abide by no one else. Sexually and relationship
wise, I'm tremendously submissive. I want to
be taken care of. I want to be held down and
told, in no uncertain terms, what to do.

I'm such a mess.
thejunipertree: (Default)
The first morning sip of Earl Grey stings the
inside corner of my upper lip like nothing
else. I've managed to put quite a little dent in it, by gnawing away using the tip of my canines. I should most likely stop doing this. But, I won't.
Just as how I'm now drinking a glass of orange
juice, for the acidic bite of pain imbedded in
my tender flesh.

Perfect metaphor for my life, if you ask me. Which
you didn't. Actions which cause knowingly cause
pain, but yet are still performed. Chewing on my
lips. Nervous picking at hangnails. Getting
tattooed. Falling in love. Throwing myself at the
brick wall of someone else's heart.

What programming was implanted in my brain at
birth that causes me to do things of this
nature over and over?

I'm turning inwards more every day that passes.
No longer as outspoken as I used to be, most of
my time is spent thinking quietly to myself about
things which would only concern me. I rarely
even wake up long enough to listen to other's
words, when before I would hang onto every one
in such a death-grip that people would refer to
me as obsessed. Catatonic state and stare.
Occasional smile and nod.

This isn't me. I don't want it to be me. But, I'm
finding it extremely difficult to be otherwise.

Orphan's words and non-words are razor sharp and
quick. I find myself holding onto them throughout
the day, despite not wanting to. Richard's wrap
me in a blanket of security/anxiety. I revel in
them, at the same time pushing them away. Wee
Heather is comfort. Stellar is laughter.

Everything else, just about, is plain irritation
and intrusive on my own little world.

With Google's Usenet archives being up and dating
back to 1996 (for the groups I searched, at
least), I find myself in trouble. I pour through
them, wandering amidst the dead names. I stumble
over Richard's ex and greenly narrow my eyes.
Finding my own old posts, I wince. Orphan's
are a constant source of fascination. He's the
only person I've ever spoken with who had the
ability to make me hate my own writing for
its simplicity. He takes the English language
by the hair and bends it to his will.

Earlier this evening, I messaged him with a plea
to make the evil headache monster leave me be.
He ignored me and I've been in a foul mood ever

Wee Heather and I briefly discussed the
possibility of having strong feelings for more
than one person at the same time. In the past,
this has given me nothing but trouble. Case in
point, Darren.

(digression: the television program my mother
is watching is playing a song which was done
at Dez's father's funeral. This has made me
begin to cry.)

Darren, above everyone else in my life, came
the closest to destroying me. He had the utmost
power over my heart. A single word from him
could send me choiring along to the angels, or
plummeting back to Earth in despair. Darren
made me travel across the world, forsake the
bonds of marriage and my own code of morality,
debase myself to his every whim, and beg for more.
I don't understand the puppet strings he had me
attached to. I don't ever want to comprehend,
either. It scared me, quite frankly. Scared me
to death and back again.

I never want to feel that again. Ever.

He filled me full of so many pretty promises and
words. He told me I was beautiful. Called me his
angel. Said he would never stop loving me, never
leave. However, he didn't stop to think of
the possibility that I wasn't the grandiouse
goddess he had imagined up in his silly, bald
skull. And when he finally discovered that I was
indeed not divine, I was given the proverbial
boot. And in the worst possible manner
conceivable, at least to me.

"I'm not in love with you anymore."

Somehow, in the meandering of this, I've lost
my train of thought. Right. Wee Heather and my
discourse on the loving of more than one person
at one time.

She asked me if it was such a bizarre concept
to me, to care about multiple people like that.
And to me, it is. Mostly.

We also talked of how circumstances, being what
they are at the moment, may have guided me into
other avenues. I may love Richard more than I
thought possible, but I fear for and despair of
our future together. I rarely have any hope of
seeing him again. Nasty, cruel thoughts. But,
they're honest and true. Something that I've
always prided myself on being.

And I've no idea how to handle any of it. I don't
see any paths leading from this into happiness.
I see only more heartbreak.

Perhaps it's only a passing attraction that wane
after a few more months. I don't know. I don't
presume to try and know.

But, my heart feels like a whore right now.


thejunipertree: (Default)

January 2011

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