Notes To My Muse

Jennifer Juan (1)

To him, from her x


Summer School

The Queen Of Being Quiet

My 21st Birthday

Me And My Monster


I Died


The Night We Went To An Art Launch


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 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.

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 gym,

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 tell you that I 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,

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”