Notes To My Muse

Jennifer Juan (1)

To the boy at the ballroom, who couldn’t dance, but tried his best, anyway x


The One Who Has Been Mine


Summer School

The Queen Of Being Quiet

My 21st Birthday

Me And My Monster


I Died


The Night We Went To An Art Launch


The One Who Is Mine


The One Who Has Been Mine

I am nervous to know you,

though you’ve been mine,

longer than any love had the pleasure,

or misfortune.



I didn’t intend

to build a house on your head,

filled with my hardest days,

where the thought of you,

and our imaginary conversations,

hang happy,

seen by you,

for the very first time.



This is where I live.

This is where I lie,

that I know the one who has been mine.



I recite your coffee order,

as I paint myself into the women you like,

based only on throwaway thoughts,

that you thought I didn’t hear,

and a faded memory of your ex,

that I cannot recall without wine and rage.



This is where I hope you’ll be the way I imagined,

this is where I hope you’ll be the man you’ve never met,

this is where I’ll get all I’ve ever wanted,

until you knock on the door,

wearing the skin,

of the one who has been mine,

but you are a stranger.



At 03:59,

I am ravishing in rubble,

screaming the house down,

as you kiss me,

kiss me

kiss me

kiss me

kiss me

kiss me

kiss me

seven times.



I photosynthesise,

before your very eyes,

and you nod in approval,

tucking me in,

under the beams,

of my bedroom sky,

with quiet concern,

for the snide neighbours.


Summer School

I felt very grown up,

playing Sonic Dash,

as I waited for you,

at the Nando’s,

on the high road.



I studied the butterflies,

that you sent to my stomach,

to try and impress you.

You were curious

for more than my mind,

and I was eager to teach you,

how to teach me,

every inch,

of Love 101.



I had worn your shirt,

over the skirt you so loved,

to see sprawled on the floor,

when you were finished with me.

I thought I had a degree,

in dainty, saintly love,

but I wasn’t even close to graduating,

and my teacher never did.


The Queen Of Being Quiet

You call me a princess,

but I know that I’m a queen,

with a crown of quiet,

decorating my curls,

in service to the only subject in my land,

and all of his secrets.

I promise that I’ll never tell,

or at least,

I won’t drop names,

I do drop cups,

that you’ll sweep up,

but I’ll be the queen of being quiet.


My 21st Birthday

You set off the fire alarm,

pulling me from my novel,

to the grass outside.

From a boy into a bird,

you surfed towards me,

and I was wrapped up in you,

and bows,

your giddy gift,

though it was my turn to receive.



Your bullish greed,

wouldn’t let my eyes,

or my heart wander.

Still, I couldn’t complain,

I was spoiled by the strands of silver,

spray painted gold,

lazily lying over lapis lazuli.



I had the world on a string,

and rain in my shoes,

as I chanted your best wishes,

until my throat begged for mercy.

I ran across town,

and painted the world,


with the sound of your voice,

and a cry of,

“Happy Birthday Jennifer.”


Me And My Monster

I listened to track ten,

all seven minutes and twelve seconds,

a hundred times,

locked in my lab,

stitching and screaming,

like a mad scientist.

It was a warm summer’s night,

on tumblr dot com,

when I unleashed my monster,

decked out in dungarees,

and you clumsily christened our mess,

with help from a YouTube tutorial.



I’m tucked into night’s dreaming,

as you tuck into my musing,

sent with a kiss,

walking down wifi,

to sit by your side,

and loudly love you,

even when I’m silent,

and halfway across the world,

fast asleep,

dreaming that you’re dreaming of me.


I Died

I died,

doe eyed,

a half smoked cigarette,

fell to the floor,

and I,


in your arms,

outside of the ice cream bar,

that was rebirthed,

as a Lebanese eatery

by the theatre,

I was dead.



You carried my corpse,

to your car,

careful with my curls,

and lonely, lived in heart,

as the ghosts

that followed me,

began to despair,

and disperse,

into the orange sky,

and I was dead.



I decorated your back seat,



the cutest corpse,

in all of London,

as you placed your jump leads,

on my lips,

and shocked me,

back to life,

and I,

once dead,

was alive.



I love that,

you ignore you’re autocorrect,

because you assume,

your correct,

and the bastard thing,

is just ducking messing with you.


The Night We Went To An Art Launch

His nervous knuckles,


by my infatuated fingers,

clinging to him,

like I clung to the small room,

I rented from my mother,

nine month tenancy,

that became two hundred and eighty five days.



I was overdue,

in my debut,

and today,

staring at things that confused me,

in a room of pretty people,

with hair that they’ve purchased,

and opinions they’ll sell,

but he nurtures me,

feeds me,

houses me,

until I feel brave enough,

to gravely whisper,

“This is fucking dumb”



You read me

like the books I write.

Before I can invent excuses

for the way I stare,

the way I sigh,

you’ve lit up the eyes,

that make me weak.

Your hands are across every word I’ve ever said,

and I am speechless.


The One Who Is Mine

I am no longer nervous of knowledge,

precognitive of your pretty pout,

when I drown myself in happy honey,

and emerge,

a giddy goddess,

delving into your dreams,

in an open top ride,

to steer you away,

from the tram you almost tripped under,

while running away

from the man you tried to hide from me.



We are in your veins,

chasing away the wet puppy stares

you gave from the gutter,

the forsaken frown at your father’s front door,

I dress you in the skin,

of the one who has been mine,

and it finally fits.



I’m knee deep in knowing you,

your coffee order warming my palms,

as I wait,


and enough,

just shy of saying,

“Maybe I was right”,

I kiss you,

kiss you,

kiss you,

kiss you,

kiss you,

kiss you,

kiss you,

seven times,

the one,

who is mine.


© Jennifer Juan 2018


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