La Historia De Una Princesa

jennifer juan la historia

Mother Of Three

Narco Nights

First Kiss

Avery Hill

Hit By A Charming Train

I Drove You Crazy

The Night Was Divine

The Game 2: A Boy’s Revenge

Home At Last

Mi Alma

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.




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.




First Kiss

My first kiss,

was a tragedy.

Not Greek,

or Shakespearean,

just us.


I shook,

inside your guilty grasp,

not your niece,

but just as nice as Catherine.

You tell me twice,

you can’t believe the mess,

as you gaze,

from the bridge,

where people like us end up,

enjoying the view,

before we throw ourselves off.


Sweet sixteen,

your precocious princess.

You confess,

hands down where heaven rests,

and learns to love your clumsy caress.

I meow to the melancholy melody,

of each mea culpa,

waiting for you to decide,

if you are my lover,

my father,

or my teacher.


You didn’t mind the games I’d played,

you told me I could toy with you,

and I’d be safe,

from the harsh, harmful hands,

of my previous playground peril.


You tutored me in trouble,

I took notes on a tongue I didn’t know how to use,

as the narrator got weary of our weakness,

and abandoned the script,

on the tired theatre floor.


Bad behaviour,

on the Brooklyn docks.

You moved me,

with Marlowe,

and Miller,

then mauled me,

which my adolescent adoration overlooked.



too much.

Going where it shouldn’t,

perversely predictable,

because men like you,

love girls like me,





Avery Hill

I kept my heart in a Hello Kitty mini fridge,

in a quiet corner of London,

singing to her scars,

in the early hours.


We had run away from home,

settling just up the road,

hiding in plain sight,

on social media,

trying to be somebody new.


I loved her before,

but the world had been unkind,

and I had to throw her to the fire,

so we could be reborn,

without the scars of our past.




Hit By A Charming Train

I used to wait,

at Walthamstow Central,

for you to remember me,

because I,

in the great tradition of telenovelas,

had amnesia,

for the flourishing flower I was,

before I was hit by a charming train.


You were overseas,

I was overboard,

bored of being beholden to you,

but unable to get the courage,

to claim myself from your abandoned belongings.


I scribbled promises of a new life,

over your name,

that lay,


across my skin,

knowing I could never escape,

the tracks I was tied to.




I Drove You Crazy

I didn’t plan to spend so much time,

inside your mind.

My own was somewhere else,


when we kissed,

because I thought we were pretend,

so I was unaware of why you started to cry,

when I called you,

offering homework help,

and liquorice.


I never meant to move in to your mind,

you must understand,

I didn’t think I had the right,



I dove inside,

and drove you crazy,

so you say.




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.




The Game 2: A Boy’s Revenge

He added me on Facebook.

I stared at a small sample of his face,

each letter of his name,

and with a tight throat,

and a shaken scream,

I was back in IT class.




It didn’t make a difference.

He sent me a message.

I exchanged small talk,

as before,

not wanting to make a scene.

He asked me how I was,

I didn’t tell him I was crying.


He said he did it because he liked me,

and just didn’t know how to say.

I didn’t know what to say.

I thought I should ask,

why he reached up my skirt,

and stole my youth,

my confidence,

my ability to see him without wanting to die.



I just said “lol, cool”,

and got drunk.




Home, At Last

Nothing changed,
except me,
the very last of those girls,
who skipped, so drunk,
down the royal roads,
to imagine our lives could be whatever we dreamed of.
Now the girls are gone,
they are fine,
I imagine.

We send digital hearts,
to say,
“Hey, I’m not dead.
Glad you aren’t either.”
I have returned,
the very last,
the very loneliest,
of those Greenwich Glamour Girls,
unable to get what I need from a screen,
or these streets.

I tried the library,
seeing myself on seats,
and shelves,
surrounded by myself,
I sighed,
slumped against the serene scene of where I grew,
and imagined my life could be whatever I dreamed of,
and I dream,
hoping I get it right this time.


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 2018


%d bloggers like this: