Sincerely, Jennifer x


Winter Is Excited
Mad Mud
Moving On
Sincerely, Jennifer x
This Poem Is Really Good



Fluid lights,
flit, flirt with every spot they can,
I’m sat here,
driven mad by a man with no licence.
I write so he can’t hear me,
I sing because I know he can’t,
the breaking burn in my chest,
as unwelcome and essential as his kiss.
Street lights and I are the same kind of girl.
I shudder, as I watch her,
flit and flirt with the wrong kind of boy.
I know I can’t stop,
no matter how much we both know.


Winter Is Excited

Winter is excited,
I am jumped upon,
frosty kisses where my scarf can’t reach,
bitter, boreal boy up and down my bare legs.
He holds me with a tenderness I don’t get these days,
and it could be love,
if he didn’t give it up,
for all the frozen females.
Winter is excited.
Winter is also a slut.


Mad Mud

At night, I dream of hidden screams,
in bloodied mud.
Small bears, the only ones with smiles,
reach out to tiny friends,
One by one by one by…
There are darker dreams than those in my head,
in the minds of the maniacal,
who would love to invade my mind with more.
How I wish I could tell you.
How I wish I could show you.
Perhaps, if we just wait?
There is no time to wait.
You have to remember,
for the past awaits those who forget.
It’s November,
I walk among you,
and I hear hungry hate,
salivating at scapegoating.
It never wakes me,
for I never sleep.
While the mud has cleared,
and the “showers” traded for baths,
they could still be coming,
and I’m not ready to be next.



“Bare with me”,
said the lion of language.
Lying when he said this was easy.
As easy as lying on a bed,
with your favourite teddy bear.
With the bare minimum of effort,
I could pay for a change,
left with change, for sweets.
Minute mind was broken for a minute,
sure it was right.
I’d been given the right,
to obey every step,
of your complex step ball change.
I slipped, stuttered,
stumbled down the steps of speaking.
“Bear with me”,
said the bear to the lion.
“I’ve barely been here a minute.”



Gleaming promise,
hard to destroy,
hard to keep.
Sleeps heavy on my mind,
on my hand,
I am almost afraid it has been lost,
but when I lift my eyes, I feel again.
Blinded in the light,
unsure rage,
guarded by diamonds and Earth.
So still, surrounded by wonder,
still, as if I never quite knew you at all.



Former friends frolic,
the dance floor was white sheen,
until it wasn’t.
Devour a tribe of angry mints,
they sting as they slide,
tough crowd.
I send a tidal wave after my friends,
and return to you,
while thanking my fingers for their service,
and my waistline for keeping its success a secret.



Where is left to land?
When you have left your mark across the world?
I dashed for nothing,
running from no one.
I trip out, and trip over,
as the sky takes your name.
Day is all around,
the floor is broken,
but there is cuteness to the cracks.
The concrete cages are open,
and we’re off to Oz, on the next house.
I’m falling where the fearless fear to float,
I can’t hold back my icy heart a day longer,
for it is melting with desire,
desperately dripping into yours.



I shall attach you,
by your sweet nervous neck,
to the bedroom wall,
and just wait.

You deserve a gallery,
but I won’t share you,
I’ll fill in your eyes,
with a sea coloured crayon.

Sometimes, I will scream,
at your sandpaper speaker,
until you wistfully whisper,
that you promise to stay.

You’ll stay hanging in my bedroom,
until I’m good and ready,
or until I sleep, hypnotised,
and you finally escape.



When I was six.
Look, when I was six.
Are you even fucking listening?
Okay, when I was six.
I had strange, bony hips,
and long, distressing rips,
in my tights.
I was just so little then,
it’s disturbing how much I’ve grown,
I’m so tall, and so strange,
and so much more than bone.
Every day now,
a tiny skirt,
popular twins,
and lights,
but one thing always stayed the same,
rips in my bloody tights.
I think I want you.
Shh, I know,
a new rip in my tights.
It’s unfamiliar territory,
unprecedented heights.
I don’t want to tell you the truth,
but unfortunately, I might.
I love that you’re familiar,
like the rips in all my tights.


Moving On

If I’m half asleep,
my pillows feel like your doughy chest,
that could have felt firmer,
had you smashed the gym,
instead of my sister.
That was petty.

I’m sorry.

I know.

You know,
it would be easier if you were dead,
no offence.
At least then I could pretend,
you meant to call, but couldn’t.

You’re sorry.

I Know.
You know,
by the way,
day by day, it gets easier.
I’ve forgotten who you were,
and sculpted a softer, safer you,
that I miss more,
than I ever loved your reality.

You know?

You know.



You, my love, are tall enough,
to hand me the moon,
and arrange the night’s sky,
to my liking.
You could block the sun,
I’ve heard, from some,
you’ve been tearing down towns,
with a roar in your throat.
I’ve seen you though,
in tears on my monkey bed sheets.
Tell me, little giant,
what frightens you so,
about a girl like me?



Run through me,
fuck me up.
Go, baby, go.

I think.
I guess.
So long, Miss Mistress.

I want your youth,
I want you mess,
I want your wanting of me.

Run through me,
fuck me up,
Go, baby, go.

Oh, baby, don’t go.


Sincerely, Jennifer  x

That’s the thing about me,
I’m sure you’ll remember,
pressing, pressing matters,
sincerely is how I end my letters,
but never how I live my life.
I get a little sick of telling you I’m sick,
in every sense of the word.
I promise,
I mean everything I say,
except what I type,
and what I tip from my lips,
but I probably love you,
God knows why.
That isn’t critical,
although this is critical,
to you,
but everybody makes mistakes,
and I guess that was yours.
I’d really like to be one of those girls,
you know,
the type in the land army of love.
I dream of digging down to my core,
and letting you,
well, actually, probably not you,
but somebody, anybody teach me how to grow.
my hands are only good for directing dreams,
and I’m not quite sure you’ve made the cut, kid.
Don’t sit on my couch,
and don’t call us,
we won’t call you, either,
but as I said,
this isn’t critical.
I wouldn’t believe me though,
if I’d been paying attention,
bur everybody makes mistakes,
and I guess that was yours.


This Poem Is Really Good






and not






does not





© Jennifer Juan 2016