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[ieatjewels]

i felt a sudden, successive softness

as though spiralled swirls and glittered tapestry embraced me

sinking me deep into that hypnotic, mellow sensation

i remember walking through a shallow, still pool of endless pink water

watched as lilies and hawthorns grew and bloomed beneath my feet

and found a line of forest extend wooden fingers and lift me to it’s mouth

there, stood between two dead willow trees and the remnants of mosaic plants drying up and decaying in the dirt

was a stallion, wide-eyed and snow-pure

i stroked her warm fur and let my cheek fall to her forehead

as the grass paled and the trees became sallow and monochrome around me

i hugged her neck, hoping my warmth would delay her rot

and felt as she crumbled into a carcass in my arms

[ieatjewels]

when i was a little girl i used to dream a lot. even now, my dad still calls me a “dreamer”. but presently, as a scatterbrained 17 year old desperately studying music production and not a 7 year old drawing pokémon ocs underneath school tables, being called a “dreamer” means a different thing entirely than what it used to. it’s defined now by my aspirations and goals, of casting myself away in fantasies of self-beauty, and improvement— my room is personalised so perfectly, adorned with patterned pink-orange scarves with fig-coloured walls, detailed golden ornaments hauled from charity shops and other beautiful aesthetics that are me. i’ve pulled my soul out of my chest like a rope of magician’s scarves and sprawled it across in the form of a bedroom. i’m beautiful, big-eyed and plump-lipped, fresh-faced but with an authenticity unfounded in anyone else. a famous musician, i stand over a huge board of grey chunky production equipment with some equally chunky black headphones hanging over my plum hair, banging out heavy bass and pretty looping pianos i pre-recorded in pinterest-worthy photos. i’m idolised, perfectly presented and wrapped up with a velvet bow. but that’s all just a dream. that’s what defines me, now still, as a dreamer, according to my dad and his changed reasons. i dream about this but what i have do to is make it happen. i know this. i’m a procrastinator, i’m lazy. but then i think back to what being a dreamer used to be to me.

when i was 7, i would fall into a strange dreamworld of fantastical, child-like creation. dad, who worked across from the school, would look out of the window at work to see me in the playground, isolated from the other playing children, walking around and talking to myself. i still find hazy flashes of these memories, where i can hear my high-pitched infantile voice mumbling about river spirits falling in love and a small, handmade wooden house atop a donkey that a little girl lived alone in amongst her cooking pots and pans. i watched over them, sometimes materialising in this dream as a magical creature or somewhat possessing the girl on the donkey’s back and living out her life for an hour. i would never concentrate in class, instead fall into my mind and stay there until scrawled, untidy schoolwork became coloured art and childish song lyrics.

the thing is, though, although i’m told differently about my dreams, i still get lost in this dreamworld. yes, it’s morphed and muddied into a more age-appropriate collection, but i’d like to still consider myself as that same little girl dreaming about a magical fantasy rather than the one cloaked in reality. in my heart, i don’t think i want to grow up.

[ieatjewels]

[ieatjewels]

i’m blanketed by the honeyed sky

gold light cresting over swirling streaking clouds

poised, mid-air,

unfalling

my eyes loll back into my skull

sunken in the lust of a songbird

half-naked

i tether a noose of angel feathers and harp strings

i breathe in crisp fumes pooling over my lungs

cadence of my heartbeat soft and fast against liquid ribs

it’s not thick dark sludge wedged between intestines

crumpled and cracked against my stomach

it’s not my lightless bedroom

not humid air sticking hair to my forehead

not a headache splitting my skull

not my swollen eyes, my sallow face

half-naked

grime beneath my fingernails

trembling hands

firm against

a noose of angel feathers and harp strings

[ieatjewels]

goodnight, sweet dreams

as opulent as they seem

you find solace in rose skies

and in swirls, my clouded eyes

through glittered sunshine ripples

and beams of frothing lace

you find your will has crippled

to a softened, tristful face

you dwale through moonlit mornings

you sink through darkened dawn

illecebrous, tender skin

before the velvet curtain’s drawn

goodnight, sweet dreams

the aurora that i crave;

the visions in my sleep i chase

as i stand beside your grave.

[ieatjewels]

the wired pit below my chest

coagulated, stiffened, entangled

tightened until corkscrews and cognition shred against pink flesh

churned and cutting, ebony release

gun cocked

blade sharpened.

i screamed but found skin blanketing my mouth.

amalgamated glitching; frothed and bubbled

my chest, hot

my eyes, lukewarm.

i spoke, not through covered lips

through pores

sunken, etched pores,

clogged with crude oil

the veins in my eyes danced and spoke murmured incantations

the synchronised, screamed cacophony

my heart coughs a smokers-cough

pardoned exhale. dismembered bodies lay bare.

my vision is gleamed by them; i can’t see

don’t split me apart again

[ieatjewels]

i once stared, deathless,

druxy vessel, stiff and motionless

eyes darkened and void of reminiscence

hard, cold eyes leeched and rooted,

the parasitic grasp

on that photograph

i wanted to tear the viridity from the gold-gleamed mirth

flushed, honeyed, ambrosia

softened, mellifluous glimmer

hazelnut streaks in my hair

i wanted to rip and slice it from my scalp

gaze as crimson stained a meadow

ignore the aurora pooling from my skull

i was full of bitterness,

the half-rotten carcass split beneath me

the black-blood, dirty.

not even the flies flew attracted to it’s stench

i pierced the thin veil of porcelain

to clench mildew, seeping roots,

that were once elysian

once gold gore

[ieatjewels]

you wept that autumn; you wore a minty, gleamed gaze

crumpled and cracked like stone, yet as smooth and shun as porcelain

and fragile like the pebbled sculptures you conjured with fumbled fingers

my webbed hands, spattered with turquoise,

indented with a sheen of violet, a mirage of rose

you longed to grasp them

the sensation spun through you callously, clenching you with a hand firm of fondant desire

you begged with every breath of fired flame, every lusting heart beat against your hot ribcage

and i was caged in your ribs, i was placed beside your red soul,

like some instinctiveless, stupidly content dove who had been captured

i was enamoured as much as you were

your pleading words spoken like silk

were ignored by the mother nature’s rules

a disobeyed, reddened perception

flocked like wildfire, spread

caught for a fleeting moment, a glimpse of azure and crimson,

connected,

and swiftly spun into ebony,

sinking into a scorched, dead shell on the ground.

you wept that autumn

you longed for summer,

you begged with a darkened breath of flame fuelled by regret,

you searched bone, ran your fingers down your metal ribcage to find me,

but i was gone.

[ieatjewels]

eyes spilled out into pools of indigo, azure

struck sunken through an ivory sheet

trailed through and stained in blue blood

drip, drip, drip

slow, and sensual, or fast and rapid

however it was desired

the droplets fell down to a crimson flower

smudged and coveted into its bewitching snare

entrapment, delusion

simply stung, not by it’s owner

but by those who sharped and struck at it’s soft, smudged surface

the blues and reds did not produce violets,

yet pretty violence, as that ivory, torn shred of sugarpaper scrunched and dismantled,

twisted, pulled and distorted herself.

cruelty cursed upon the writer’s guild by fondled fingers

longed for an excuse, a blame

he did it. collectively, they did it?

she searched and breathed saltwater,

a murky brown from the mixed watercolour

but found nothing.

bated breath and the ugly crawling coldness

the realisation of it all, that it was not anyone else

but gifted from the illustrator, the author, the conjuror,

it was that ivory sugarpaper’s own doing.

[ieatjewels]

once i had coated my nails crimson

blood-coloured, stark

it felt disfigured

almost as mutilated as when i used the same nails

to scrape at my skull and pull out my brain

to savour it’s blackened, charred shape

and marvel and it’s deteriorated figure

the scarlet streams pouring from my seams

fashionably, i found, matched the coat of polish at the ends of my fingers.

and i felt giddy, unreal,

a satisfied purity sunk into me like sunrise

cadmium yellow i called it,

it clashed with the ruby slash, but it felt natural

but it was then that i noticed, with shaking hands full of liquid light,

that i had skin.

and the honey spilling from my eyes to my hands hardened and decayed

as i realised my body, my vessel

did not match the stark red of my wound

my cracked skull, had it deceived me?

i could not alter the etchings of my skin unless i ripped it off my body

and so i lay, helpless

bleeding out onto the ground

savouring the feelings of connection between a painted facade

and a splitting skull.

[ieatjewels]

once

i found myself scarce;

a vessel of course shelves void of their contents

so, forcefully

i split open a precipice of skull between my fingers

and, still finding nothing,

i embraced it between my index with a callousness

only determined by desperation

more unruly and carelessly then before

but the bone cradling my library-mind broke

fragmented into falling droplets

and landing at my feet

[ieatjewels]

if the man i prayed for under the moon

in the dark, illuminated by my rose candlelight

found himself unperturbed by my blue eyeshadow

and my scarlet lips that quiver

he would quake softly under spellbound sound

and would watch as my hair fell like dark curtains of night

he would place one hand of gold

on my scalp, and feel it’s softness

as if it was not collapsed from its cold and seeing consciousness like his, he believes

i am gentle and murky and unconfined by my skin prison

he would see only good and pleasant, undeceiving, slight, quiet thoughts that haven’t aged my caged skull

he’d often light his cigar

watch as the smoke became entangled with my rooted head

but his gifted tobacco streams, unlike the ones he had before

wouldn’t leave my hair

in an ordinary world it would linger then leave

shun it’s way from the mind of a woman who was red or blonde

and yet it stayed

[ieatjewels]

your garden was my favourite place

the trees tendrils draped over one another

the floral spattered clusters nestled between trunks

carnations covered your landscapes

the crystal skies encrusted in diamonds in contrast to your well-kept emerald

butterflies floated freely

there was an old greenhouse that you kept

broken rays of sunlight refracted from it

i don’t remember your favourite flower but i know you had one

you loved plants; you fell in love with mother nature and ran your hands through her hair

you spoke sweet symphonies against her when she cried or shone

you never plucked your gentle creations; you kept them breathing with the grass and bugs

we’re different in that matter, the flowers and i

cloudless skies overhead shone gold on the thicket

the light made its way to care for your skin and mind and you liked the aquamarine it brought out in your eyes

the bushes surrounded the space in an embrace

the vines curled like locks of flaxen hair; just like mine

the animals running through this thicket

i ponder the simplicity of their mindset; they don’t feel the roots seeping though them

the birds sing through their woes and find themselves unforgiving

yet the warm cloud of day strikes them with sincerity

the garden is beautiful

more beautiful than i ever was; or what i am still

and although my body now rots just below the earth, seeped through the emerald blanket

you and i keep this secret

that the garden knows what you did