What Do Little Girls Dream Of?



He’s The One
Years Too Late
What Do Little Girls Dream Of?
Doctor’s Note
Life Is Beautiful
Cien Años
Holiday Cheer



He’s The One

He’s the one,
because my heart is broke,
and we were so sure of this investment.
If it doesn’t pay off,
life is off,
I simply couldn’t venture into other markets.
I’d be marked by this painful purchase,
and return to the painful process,
of shopping for a soul mate,
and hoping I keep the receipt.


Years Too Late

She walked the “pretty” patterns home,
underneath a long sleeved shirt,
he told her she was pretty, now,
as if she wasn’t pristine when he found her.

She told herself to wear longer skirts,
in case he wanted to get creative,
she also told herself to run,
then remembered she’d forgotten how.

She couldn’t remember if she loved him, still,
he’d always remind her that he always would,
the thought of always was fire to her throat,
but she returned it, for a moment of mercy.

It never felt quite like a kiss,
not that she could recall.
It felt like a cocktail of choking shame,
and a bitter brand of bad boy brandy.

She can’t see me, alone at her window,
my hand meets glass as his meets her,
and I cannot hear myself screaming, years too late.
I cannot save myself from him, years too late.



We walk in a world you changed,
and a world we will keep changing,
with you in each moment of motion.
Your last act, as all were, selfless,
and while our road ahead seems hopeless,
we must walk in the world you changed,
and resist rewinding.



Poison lives in my pillows,
and I’m surrounded by your spell.
Your fingers have posted their prints through my door,
and have danced through my domain.
Nothing on my breathless body belongs to me,
when it’s covered by lacy, racy love.
I lay in lavender,
but there’s no escape.
Your whispers,
and too damn loud,
are all around.
I don’t have eight hours,
not even one,
without your passionate poison in my ear,
and in my heart,
and in my soul.


What Do Little Girls Dream Of?

What do little girls dream of?
When the day has hit the sheets,
and the lingering lights start to retreat,
this little girl safely walks the streets.

What do little girls dream of?
I invite you to her dreary dreams,
she’s running from the daylight scenes,
where her body is bartered, even if she screams.

What do little girls dream of?
A time when she has complete control.
Only when her eyes are closed,
does she live her little life unopposed.

Goodnight, little girl, goodnight.
Be delighted in your dreaming tonight,
you’ve been waiting, but the time is now right,
for you to walk among the woken.

of course,
the revolution is a dream too.



Whenever you’re around,
I go missing.
Call it shyness,
call it a public service,
I disappear,
like an magician’s unglamorous assistant.
I feel I could walk right through you,
though touching your skin is too much to take,
then I’d gain my wings,
and be raised on unflattering wires,
to meet a jeering audience of angels,
who found the whole thing delightful.


Doctor’s Note

I’d like to be excused,
at least just my eyes,
aged beyond their time,
with each opening.
Anti love letters litter the land,
painful pills want to play.
I stand at the stove,
rebuild the meal,
rebuild the home,
though my learning arms barely reach.
Nothing burns quite like your sleeping silence,
as the rest of the world screams.
I’m old enough to read,
old enough to hear,
and old enough to wish I wasn’t.
We’re all infected,
by our host,
but nobody takes the time to tell us.
We already know,
and even when well,
the scars will speak,
every time we try and make friends.
We’re quarantined by who we are,
or where we came from,
or who we come from.


Life Is Beautiful

You’re still beautiful,
even if life isn’t.
Dig through darkness,
spill sunshine,
that I’m not keen to clean up.
I embrace everything,
in your enchanting eyes,
though fear frames us.
I bathe in blood,
captured from me,
by the armies in my head,
and the ones who wait outside my door.
I’m drained of pain,
under your gaze,
and you talk away each graze.
Life is beautiful, once more,
because you are.


Cien Años

In one hundred years,
the girl you loved,
will be buried deeper than your feelings.
Dressed in desire,
and next to another,
while you’re tethered to your nagging past,
coveting another man’s crypt,
and the treasure you never touched.


Holiday Cheer

Christmas comes cheaper,
when the ones you held close,
spent the year forgetting you were close,
and your well meaning mind stood guard,
outside your door.

Your credit card is grateful,
that your nearest and dearest,
won’t come near, and won’t be dear,
because they can’t see you’re still there,
under your well meaning mind.

Just you and your well meaning mind,
with a lonely gift.
you sit down for dinner, but it doesn’t taste right,
there is nothing to say,
you, or your well meaning mind.



© Jennifer Juan 2016