This is my house. (01.04.2020; 03:40)

This is my house. Its windows are caddishly black after traumatizing decades of being left to dust. Cobwebs are tangling, crocheting convoluted highways, hotbeds of dirt and mold, of rotten flies, spiders, catterpillars and opal butterflies all cohabit apathetically, disregarding one another’s sorrow and transcience; everything has been buried to the ground.
This is my house. My bed is stained with ash and tears, chained with rusty threads, there I lie my quaking corpse.
This is my house. All I’ve eaten were cigarrete butts for the last 3 weeks. My eyes are superglued to the LCD; everything is stuck in motion. Tap water tastes like blood, so I drink the morning dew when I can. My grating claws gleefully ballet on the keyboard; there, the textbox is overwhelmed with sunshines, smileys, and crying cats. But you see, this flimsy cat isn’t merely crying; it’s crying while laughing, and that’s how I feel—maniacally melancholic.
Because this is my house. And I won’t let anyone in ever again.
You won’t eat my food and relish in my shelter. You won’t deplete my streams. I won’t make you a cup of tea and ask you to take off your shoes. I’ve locked the door three times and stuffed the peephole with weeds. I’ll dig a tomb in front of my block, where the willows once were, so you’ll never look for me. I’ll garnish it with daisies and dandelions, so you won’t think I’ve been forgotten. I’ll make a deal with Uriel to sing my tomb an empty tune, so you won’t think I’m in hell.
Because this is my house. And I won’t let anyone in ever again.