La Historia De Una Princesa

jennifer juan la historia

We’ll Run Away And Get Married Anyhow

Mother Of Three

I Missed You, On The 6th Of July

You Make Me Happy


Narco Nights

Ace Of Hearts

Watching Waves

Hunger Pains


You Killed Summer

Beautiful Monsters

Chasing You

Lecture Notes

Springtime For Britain

Night Of The Loving Dead

September Song

Aberforth Rides Again

London Road

The Night Was Divine

Not Like The Other Girls

Rain Dance


New Year, New Me


Mi Alma


We’ll Run Away And Get Married Anyhow

My heart cannot be told,

as the tiny strand of silver,

that invaded his boyish blonde hair,

and now keeps him up at night,

is taken prisoner

by my ring finger,

a make believe mark of marriage.

My heart just cannot be told,

anything but,

“We’ll run away and get married,


The universe reels,

but nothing is real to me any more,

so I just go with it,

and I go wherever he asks me.


Mother Of Three

BBC Two,

at 2AM,

was the place to be,

after a long life,

all taking place in one day.

Being herself.

Being grown up.

Being the bad guy.

Being the good girl.



Pain pills,

lavender head balm,

with Michael Bluth,

and a strawberry milkshake,

it’s a party for three,

for the mother of three,

until she remembers the ironing,

and the IT homework.

Click and scroll,

as the sun awakes.

Nobody else does,

so she dances,

in silence,

with a man she’s never met,

through haunted halls,

who never tell,

when they see her cry.

All dressed up,

in a sensible skirt,

tie and blazer,

her mother’s mind,

on top of hers,

toppling tiara,

that challenges her balance.

Should the girl,

should the girl,



should the girl in the £2.50 Primark shirt,






The story of the family,

who had nothing to lose,

and the one daughter,

with no choice,

but to tear herself apart,

to keep them together.


I Missed You, On The 6th Of July

I brought you home a rainbow flag,

that the wind sent to me,

because it could see,

in the stars,

or our eyes,

or our hearts,

that you were the light,

the brightness,

the love of my life.

Maybe my wife,

if your busy schedule permits,

for you to leave your closet office,

where you work on presentations,

that obscure our “queer perversions”.

I held the flag close all day,

as if the purple stripe,

contained the sum of your spirit,

so I could feel like I hadn’t failed,

at helping you feel like you could be free,

on the streets,

that are too busy with the parade to see,

how much you mean to me.

You know,

I never love you less,

bringing home flags,



if you want them,

because I want you,

even if we are only close,

cuddled in your closet,

keeping secrets,

making wishes,

that next year,

we’ll both bring home flags of our own.


You Make Me Happy

Yesterday I was thinking about us,

outside of the day’s distractions,

unfortunately overwhelming.

My mind was swimming in a stream,

arching and reclining,

knowledgeable and everblooming,

enabling my imagination.

Have I gotten off track?


please bring me back,

please tell me that,

you’ve been thinking about us too.



You are crying,

as the wind watches you weigh up your options.

Waiting on a roof for a reason,

that may never come,

and the wind,

is lazy and unmoved by your last goodbye,

to a world she only observes.

You write an essay,

with your troubled tongue,

telling the air around you,

all the things you regret,

as the rushing wind caresses your hair,

and I am on the ground,

jealous, jubilant and jailed,

by the worry that I’m too late,

abseiling down into the core of the earth,

powered by the need to be as close as the wind,

in my own way.

She has no prayer or advice,

no real preference,

for whether you jump into tomorrow,

or jump into yesterday,

for she will continue to pass,

wherever you go,

(or do not go),

and nothing can be done,

but I will still try,

even if the world and all it’s wonders won’t.


Narco Nights

I got out my best pen,

my shaking hands,

the same as your swivelling eyes.

I wrote you a letter,

and said I was leaving.

I knew you’d slur a reply.

I knew I’d stay.

I stared at my arms.

Perhaps they could end up like yours,

painted in polka dots,

tainted by tracks,

that I could never train for.

I could trade paracetamol,

for pethidine,

drowning in drink,

and be a daughter you finally recognised.

I made myself small,

kneeling at your chair,

summoning the day we met,


held in your arms,

and a hospital blanket.

I begged in baby talk,

hoping you’d recall,

the times you knew how this all worked.


put down the pills and liquor.

Lie a little,

that you love me more,

than the shit you swallow,

from your dealer.

You didn’t hear.

You didn’t slur a reply.

You’d fallen asleep again.

Nuzzled into narco night nooses.

You didn’t read my letter,

I didn’t leave.

Neither did you.

I phoned for an ambulance.


Ace Of Hearts

Berkeley Square sent the songs,

of all their nightingales,

who became beguiled,

by the slushy summer romance scene

we starred in.

Angels sat on the steps to the shore,

sipping strawberry shakes,

from Notarianni’s,

nodding in approval,

as we slow danced our hearts,

into sentimental sand.

Playing cards,

as the tide comes in,

taking hands from supportive sharks,

who deal us in,

on their way to terrorise tourists.

Seven cards,

ace of hearts,

every single time,

because this day,

is a love letter,

a new start.

Thirsty angels,

conduct a million love songs,

for eager and nosy nightingales,

to celebrate,

that we are together at last.


Watching Waves

I race the memory of you,

up the stairs,

with last night,

alone on the beach,

still fresh in my mind,

lingering in my hair.

In one moment,

I am there,

watching waves,

making wishes,

being the only girl in the world,

with you.

On the bed,

among the softness of my sheets,

I cry into covers,

the lullaby of last night,

still settled around my shoulders,

your cologne caught in my coat.

Lollipops and love,

drinking away our youth,

watching the future floating towards us,

but feeling unafraid,

in the safety of your embrace.

I cry myself to sleep,

like a little girl,

dropped directly into dreams of you,

daring myself to wait,

waving at my wishes,

that sailed to the sky,

from the waves we watched,

as you approach,

your arms finding me,

daring to love me a little louder,

than you can when we awake.


Hunger Pains

I think I was ten.

Wearing midnight blue,

in the middle of the day.

My neighbourhood knew that one day,

probably in the middle of the day,

I’d be the world’s greatest dancer,

and so it span around me,

as I sat,

in the big girl’s passenger seat,

feeling real sweet,

in my midnight, midday, blue,

after dance class.

Hawley Road.

You were my hero.

As I said,

I was probably ten,

but now,

I’d rather not say how old I am,

just that I am taking strepsil after stressed out strepsil,

hoping to finally choke to death.


back to the car,

Hawley Road,

and the ten minute drive I cannot forget.

I think I was ten.

You were driving me home,

after dance class.

You’ve just done it again,

and I can’t see what I’m writing,

because the day you drove me home,

is replaying,

and tripping down my cheeks and lips.

I was ten,

dance class.

I was a booster seat for a box,

filled with my favourite cakes.

I was Hawley Road.

Driving down ten.

Box booster seat.

I’d been dancing for hours.

I asked for a cake,

and you said,

that I was sent to dance,

so I could lose weight,

and suddenly,

I fell from the stars I performed for.

I’m still falling now,

and I can see you,

forgetting to remember,

what I cannot forget.

I hadn’t had breakfast that day,

because we had overslept.



So, you lost your mind.

I will carry your heart home.

Just put down the knife.


You Killed Summer

I used to say,

with such extravagant flair,

that you were a monstrous mix,

of the sweetest and most special things,

on the pretty planet we call home.

Torturing my pages,

with the constant mention of your name,

convinced that you were the source of light,

and life,

as summer died,

echoes of your eyes falling like leaves,

as I clung to time,



despite my unearned high opinion of you,

you would never have the courage to commit.

You killed summer.


Beautiful Monsters

Don’t read my mind.

Fall down this rabbit hole,

with me,

feel something reckless,

life so far on the edge,

that the danger feels therapeutic.

Live inside my mind,

but don’t read the walls,

where painful promises are painted,

that will walk from the walls,

looking and looming over us,

beautiful monsters,

built from ambitions,

for us,

that you aren’t ready to see yet.

Did you enjoy your time,

as the roaring tide,

that sent me to a sea I couldn’t escape?


Chasing You

I don’t want you back,

but I want you around,

waiting to want you,

in an uncontrollable way.

I am a guilty girl,

chasing you,

though you’re not worth my attention,

just doing it,

or you,

for the sake of it,

because we’re just no good,

you and me.


Lecture Notes

Somebody told me once,

that I should never show the world my bleeding heart.

I mean,


it’s messy,

a little cynical,

and scientific,

but some days,

dressed in ravishing red regret,

that bleeding bitch is all I’ve got to give.


Springtime For Britain

You jokingly call your mother in law’s racism,


because she teaches at the local primary,

volunteers at the scouts,

with your aunt,

who still says half caste,

no matter how many times you slap her hand,

like she is a naughty dog,

who did a piss in the kitchen.

To you,

they are casual,

80’s comedy characters,

political correctness gone sane,


“oh what are you like” type of racism,

thinks black hair is beautiful,

but crosses the street when she sees a black man,

just saying what everybody thinks,

just wanting Britain to be British,



“can’t tell her off because she’s from a different time” racism.

Of course,

we know that racism is only real,

when a sentence does not begin with,

“I’m not racist, but…”

We know that racism is only real,

when it is found in rallies,

with a fascist front man,

as charismatic as he is cringeworthy,

but somehow adored,

for just saying what everyone thinks,

saying it how it really is,

says he wants Britain to be British again,

but he’s surrounded by thugs,

that’s the difference,

that’s absolutely what makes all the difference.

Red on his banners to tell you where he comes from,

red on the floor when he’s told us where he intends to send us,

and you can see it,

after a while,

but you can’t see how he has possessed your aunt,

your mother in law,

even yourself,

as you click retweet on a Katie Hopkins video,

after asking your token and tired minority friend,

if it’s okay,

knowing you will ignore whatever she has to say,

assuring yourself that you normally wouldn’t,

but “today,

Hatie Kopkins has a point,


fuck Shamima Begum”.

I’m always astounded,

by how quickly we forget,

that the war against progress,

was not fought by armies,

or thugs at rallies,

but the people who invited hatred into their homes,

sitting down with it,

as it oozes onto their once clean carpets,

slurping tea with a hurried whisper of

“maybe he’s just saying what everybody thinks…”,

before you know it,


and your family,

sit huddled around hatred,

chanting like a cult,

that “you’re not racist, but…”

cozying up,

nice and casual,

getting comfortable,

with casual racism,

as if it makes you better than Hitler, Franco and Farage.

I may be a half caste,

but I am twice the mind you are,

because I never deluded myself,

into thinking there are two types of racism.


Night Of The Loving Dead

Give me the scissors,

and I’ll just cut you out of my life.

I type,

such spectacular sensationalism,

to tell you that I’m seriously serious,

about how deeply I desire my ride or die relationship,

with adorable,

unobtainable you.

You’ve given me the world,

and I only want to share it with you.

You’ll be my very best friend,

because the rest will be dead,

(to me,

at least),

looming at the windows,

zombie moans of,

“You’re in too deep again!”

but I just don’t care,

because I awake each day,

living only for you,

unhealthy and unseemly as it seems.


September Song

I walked across the world,

because I heard destiny in a dream,

setting off in the May sunshine,

to meet a mystery.

Still in my nightdress,

I was traipsing through time,

days and nights became moments,

as the world spins,

set to cinematic strings,

the ocean and air breathing,


sending me forward,

to be the most glamorous grave robber

that the world had ever seen.

I was a toffee trophy,

that meant more,

than anyone could imagine,

behind closed doors,

crawling from my cradle,

standing tall,

I admire you,

Darling December sunset,

the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.

I’m not a baby,


I know my own mind.


Aberforth Rides Again

My ex wife told me once,

that she converted to Satanism,

because she was a control freak,

and she was starting to think that Christianity was a scam.

He decided that she should be a beautiful blonde,

with a gorgeous hazel gaze,

(Yes, THAT ex wife),

that she should meet a woman,

who would chronicle each mundane moment of her life,

in excruciating but occasionally exaggerated detail,

(for example, we were not actually married),

which she said she didn’t mind so much,

but she could never be sure,

if our love was special and spontaneous,

or if we were the pretty playthings

of some queerbaiting sims player in the sky,



it all got too much.


she began sacrificing chickens,

to appease gruff but grateful goats,

setting fire to the local church,

every now and again,

celestial and serene,

her bright eyes battling the flames,

daring the world around her,

or any God,

in any sky,

to test her.

I waited at home,

under her spell,

with a list of chores,

as long as one of my poems about my angsty teenhood,

scrubbing and sorting our castle,

at her request,

because she was my God,

and I never had a problem taking orders.


London Road

There you go,

Miss Mortality,

missed in many ways,

by many you never dared to dream,

would hold you in their hearts for so long.

Memorialised in private pixels,

that mean many things,

to many minds,

and I am reminded,

of weeping at my birthday party,

that you could never attend,

though I never thought to invite you.


The Night Was Divine

The night was divine,

the sun desperately clinging to the sky,

to catch a glimpse of us,

especially you,

a violet vision,

violently beautiful,

the king of hearts.


my life had started.

I awoke from the banishment of my beginning,

rubbing my enchanted eyes,

until they were free of twenty two tears,

and I stared,

and I smiled,

on our hella,

bella notte.


I could see beauty and joy,

in forgotten Tsingtao cans,

who could,

and would learn to love the lips of another.

Dancing ash,

abandoned on the ground,

but still streaming across the street,

as if anything was possible.

You reached out your hand,

which I stole,

hoping for your heart,

in time,

and the night,

my love,

was divine,

my love.

The night was simply divine.


Not Like The Other Girls

Mourn the wasted time,

spent at war with our allies,

murdering ourselves.

We are all alone,

on the battlefield, until,

we find each other.

Barbie, Lara Croft,

Violet Harmon, Taylor Swift,

be them all, or none.

It takes way too long,

to see that nothing was wrong,

with the “other girls”.


Rain Dance

Somewhere there is rain,

a melody of screaming,

we shall dance to now.



You breathe beauty,

eyes like a springtime sky,

just as you are now,

reading my diary,

covered in my secrets,

that spill across the floor,

staining your shirt,

as you discover too much.

I have a problem.


All the ways I was passionate about you,

rage and rapture,

from baby doll to bunny boiler,

waking up shaken and scared,

because I am securely,

sincerely yours,

and I’d like to be mine again.

Stop fucking reading.


New Year, New Me

I am living life backwards,



a mistress to my memories,

who will only see me discreetly,

under the cover of darkness.

Tell me,

why do fools fall in love,

with the days they’ll never see again?

Why am I wandering,

moonlit and miserable?

There are fireworks frolicking in the sky,

the stars painted like a rainbow,

as Big Ben sings to the city,

that we made it through another year,

and I am furious,

at an inanimate object,

that is only doing his job,

and telling me the time,

because I’m not ready to sleep,

when I know tomorrow will be waiting,

as I awake.

The daylight is cruel,

dancing in the distance,

further and further away,

every time I take a breath,

but the night is pushing me towards my next step,

ignoring my ill fitting heels,

and general reluctance.

I am clinging to the pavement,

praying for the world to stop spinning,

bells to be blissfully still and silent,

so I can hold on to the night a little longer,

but night can never take me back,

and I can tell by the way the day avoids me,

that day doesn’t want me either.



You may take my blood,

feed until you are fulfilled,

but leave me my dreams.


Mi Alma

You and I,

by the church,

holding hands,

listening to Cindy Scott,

in sweet silence,

that didn’t frighten or bore me.

That’s when I knew,

as the night wrapped her arms around us,

the sun fast asleep,

behind the tall trees of the square,

your hand,

still holding mine,

trembled and teased me,

and my heart wept as she lost control.

I knew,

as I glanced up at you,

to see you glancing back,

the most beautiful boy,

at our party for two,

surrounded by the stars,

cigarette hanging from the lips I loved,

and I,

so alive,

risen from the dead,

by your deadpan declaration of affection.

I knew,

on those steps,

as I sank into your sweeping shoulders,

my lashes meeting,

gossiping about you,

as my eyes closed,

and the city walked past,

staring at you,

as if they knew too,

and I knew,

that my soul,

was sitting on some steps,

in Leicester Square,

with his best girl in his arms,

and a cigarette hanging from the lips she loved.


© Jennifer Juan 2019