SWEET DREAMS

I am doomed now. Every time mothers' newspaper or magazine smacked on the table there was the accusing glare. To be fair, her warnings have come true. Scary predictions, backed by medical columns. As long as I can remember she used to read aloud items concerning substances, additives and the like, pursing her lips and shoving more veg into the never--ending stew pot. Poor mum; she knew that I was just hoping for a sugar rush in a pudding.
That is the reason I'm in this position, sticky-booted with marshmallow and overlooked by glacier mint mountains. Sky like a giant haribou stripe. Even my cloak and spiky hat are the colour of chewy opal fruits. Thinking of 'spiky' reminds me of a 'spike' when you get a sugar hit (according to certain advice). Then it supposedly drops, leaving a person with a downside, or something similar. How can a natural piece of plant, such as a sugar cane, be harmful?
This place is a bit Willy Wonka-ish and makes a girl desire to wallow. Regret stealing angelica packs from the corner store. This dress is kinda same shade of green. I'm sick of green. Sick. Shouldn't use that word. It's my destiny. Too late to backtrack. Can't escape now.

Doc's voice filters through. 'I'm afraid no more can be done, ma'am. Time has run out. it must be turned off. Your girl has just about worn out her body'.
My last thought: wonder if angels bake angel cakes...