My bedroom has become a mausoleum:
Built especially for my death and filled with things I enjoyed in life,
but are of no use to me now.
I seal myself away in my tomb.
I am hungry but everything I try to eat turns to dust
in my mouth,
the smell of  spoiled milk stains my nostrils.
I am the King Midas of decay.
The girl who rots,
and makes others rot around her.
Flowers wilt under my step
and leaves turn brown and fall around me.
I wish I could bury myself in them and became part of the earth I was born from.