Synopsis: A collection of isolated thoughts, that wouldn't leave me alone, and turned into poems.
No One Says No To Miss Juan Angels rest on wrists, bloodied, broken bastards. Transcending talent, they burned magic onto paper hearts. Parched paper hearts, longing for wishful inking, wistful thinking, much like my own.
Home (Alone) For The Holidays We had tea, until a certain someone, took offence to the word “dull”. But honestly, my dear, your wallpaper leaves a lot to be desired. God, get me out of this house.
Cliché You said you were nothing, without her. I said, you are everything, to me. You said she was like a stunning sunset I said I can't wait for the sun to leave.
Garden Centre A seed hides in boots, runs up legs, vines around my body. I am new to he, if this is nothing, sink me, I grow wild under his gaze. In so many ways, I am elegance, prosperous, ridiculous. My head is a garden of us, new, breathing things, we planted together. Salty water feeds my stem, my hunger incessant, my eyes, accommodating.
Build-A-Babe Marbles for eyes, dark brown universe within. She spoke seven languages, with sultry, sickly syllables. He traced her every evening, lost inside of her Eden, glazed eyes, lost to her marbles, which never really changed. Both of us watched her burn, temptation set her aflame, I stared in her place, as our eyes finally changed.
Seasons You did so much, from May to December, and I ran, in knee socks, and inappropriate shoes, to catch up. I was covered in you, bleached head, painted toe. Human mood board, with the seasons. Fantasies found in your browser history. Hide and seek was fun, you found me, cuddling college debt, in the cupboard under the stairs, enchanted by your jazz records.
You said, I was the best of you. Slipped me notes, as you slipped away. and I had your devotion. When I fell, we played on the carpet. Scotch and cigarettes, remain on the shoulders of that same winter coat. Over that same little dress, that you always liked best, to say, goodbye.
Selfie? I don't know her, emulates everything. I hear, she exists, online exclusive. I have lived her, or so she says today. I see, she persists, copycat cutie. I become her, when camera turns around, I leave, she insists, it's her shoot, not mine.
© Jennifer Juan 2015