Once upon a time, there was a jewellery box
with a ballerina at its centre
and music in its drawers.
Its insides were red velvet,
and its etchings lined with flowers.

It sat on a vanity in a house small and cold—
a house but never a home—
and a little girl perched before the mirror.
She rummaged through dressers, for rouge and accessories,
precious items that should have been dearer.

The box was the centre of her imagination’s orchestra,
the musical strings she saw with her eyes.
Tales spun like the ballerina en pointe in her dance,
the notes engraved deep in her mind
with stories of wonder and magic, death and dreams,
life and all its romance.

The box held songs in a room silent and cold,
where the little girl snuck in uninvited.
Its lining was stories. Its music was heaven.
Its jewellery was treasures undelighted.
But it was never to be played with, never to be touched,
never its secrets ignited.

Once upon a time, there was an old woman,
who had been young before.
A bride in bloom, a groom unwanted,
and a jewellery box in her trousseau.
Her new house was designed to her immaculate taste:
her fortress against both friend and foe.

This young woman loved pretty things,
and pretty things loved to fall in her lap.
But she had a husband who was loud and vulgar and rough
and a daughter who took after her dad.
So, she cried for her life, raged at her luck,
and left her daughter unpretty, but tough.

This woman kept her jewellery box (all her pretty things)
safe and close to her heart.
Her daughter longed to approach them, be close just once,
but pretty things were not to be touched.
So, the daughter left this house with her heart hardened to stone,
deciding she did not like pretty things all that much.

The young woman became an old woman; the jewellery box stayed the same,
with silver and gold and charms never worn.
All those pretty things, but a house empty with dread,
with this old woman screaming “lonely” and “unfair” and “unsaid,”
and then on a bed by her jewellery box, she was found cold and dead.

Once upon a time, there was a daughter who became a mother,
who did not want her family broken by “pretty,”
whose items were items and boxes were used,
and her daughters were for loving with no conditions to prove.
But then she got a phone call, a body, unspeakable news.

The mother did not want to mourn the old woman
who’d shunned her, isolating her precious jewellery box.
She did not want people watching, expecting her tears
for the woman—not a mother, the house—not a home,
and the pretty nightmare that haunted her fears.

The mother had daughters, though, who understood
her helpless dilemma, her unspoken pleas.
They did not offer her hugs or comfort that would
mean her quiet joy was unseen.

The daughter, the mother, the old woman was buried.
No songs can be heard where she lies.
Her pretty house was stripped bare, her pretty things all sold,
her pretty madness scattered to the skies,
and her legacy remained untold.

Once upon a time, there was a daughter who had a mother
and an old dead woman with a jewellery box to spare.
She had dreamt of tales in this box of treasure—
dreams that were finally awake—
and now deep inside her was a grim satisfaction,
one that was destined to break.

This daughter was a little girl once, eyes full of wonder and hope.
But life was not a jewellery box suspended in time,
so the little girl grew up, her heart full of bitterness and sorrow.
And when the untouchable box became hers for the taking,
she took it with spite that rang true but hollow.

This little girl became a young woman with a jewellery box like before.
The little girl liked broken things; the young woman broke them more.
She filled the box with cheap charms, expensive charms, seashells from the shore,
and wore the old woman’s silver until the sheen was all worn,
until the box could hold no more.

The daughter, the little girl, the young woman was through.
She hadn’t realized how heavy was the haunting sound.
The box held jewellery but held ghosts stirring too.
The ballerina stood still, no dance all around.
And the little girl saw that pretty things were more lost than found.

Once upon a time, there was a girl whose mother cleaned a home—not a house—
with the ugly and the pretty, the used and unseen,
and the untouchable ghosts of the past.
The mother, the daughter, the girl, the woman—
the jewellery box could not haunt them anymore.

The music deserved to play again.
The ballerina deserved to dance again.
The jewellery deserved to shine again.

So, take the jewellery box, you sweet summer girl.
Fill it with pretty things and ugly things, the cheap and the precious.
Do not let it sit useless. Do not let it collect dust.
Do not let it be cold and lifeless in a cold and empty house.

Take the jewellery box, you wild daughter of wonder.
The ghosts will not follow you.
The memories will not chase you.
Take it away from the pain, the lifeless bodies,
the unending questions, the deathbeds, the hollow untouchable mess.

Take the jewellery box, you brave daughter, girl, woman.
Pass it on as a mother to a daughter full of love.
Ensure its insides are not lined with troubles.
Ensure its outsides are etched with songs.

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  • Roaa Eid is a researcher, writer, and poet based in Egypt, with a BA in English Literature and an MA in Medieval Studies. She started writing when she was twelve years old and realized words and fiction made great friends during lonely teenage years. She likes to explore the strange, the impossible, the absurd —ultimately, what makes humans question everything.