The Novel I Never Wrote
The novel I never wrote unfolds in my head.
The one that haunts me but will never be read.
The novel that is never coming out.
The novel I told all of my friends about.
The novel like the emperor’s new clothes.
The novel that swallowed ten chapters whole.
The novel with a dozen main characters all true.
The novel born in New Jersey.
The novel tossing my favorite doll in the mud.
The novel psychoanalyzing my fear of empty spaces.
The adolescent novel.
The virgin novel.
The novel a flourishing oak in suburbia.
The novel that’s never hungry.
The novel that fucks me first time.
The novel that gets me stoned.
The novel that follows me to Boston.
The novel that gets me drunk and takes me home.
The New York City novel.
The novel that takes my hand in marriage on a beach in Puerto Rico.
The novel I blow and fuck.
The novel I nurse in sickness and in health.
The novel I cook for.
The vegetarian novel.
The novel I give birth to and raise.
The novel that puts me on a plane.
The foreign life novel.
The novel in German translation.
The novel that killed my brother.
The novel that continues to fuck me
While I dream about the novel I want to fuck.
The prescription painkiller novel.
The novel I go broke for.
The novel I will grow old with.
The novel that exhausts and will someday kill me.
The novel I will die for without ever having touched.
| Jennifer Juneau |
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