A dead daisy chain hangs
withered
from the wall.

Butterfly stickers,
remnants of a happy childhood,
flutter across a dusty lamp.

The walls are still pink
as is the bed,
the word 'princess' parades
in one's mind upon entering.

In the top drawer by the bed
are packets of the pill.
In the bottom drawer is a pipe,
marijuana in a tampon box.

Nailpolish, blood red and black,
litter every surface
with their companions
lip gloss, lip stick and lip balm.

Photos of the last shoot
invade photo frames -
reminder to self:
I am beautiful.

Clothes heap upon the floor,
the chair,
the desk.

The room is tiny,
a converted laundry.
This is where she hides,
this is where she suffocates,
this is where she writes

about the daisies 
that she murdered,
which scream upon the wall.