The orange peel on top of my bedside table is starting to rot.

The pile of orange peel on top of my bedside table is starting to rot.
Not rotting, only starting,
Curling over in a fog of melancholia, spoiled
and wilted, my bones screech in the stench of such an unbecoming death,
futile as it wraps the skin of its scent around my tongue,
and tightens with every acknowledgement,
as if the unconscious Id,
the anonymous ego,
thriving within the buzz of flies and maggots,
insatiate as they consume all that could possibly be consumed,
every ferocious pigment and trepid texture and lowly size and great mass,
and all without the burden of thought,
only instinct,
The instinct of consumption,
ever so bewitching when carried out by critters that live in the carpet,
just below the surface, a myiasis of the mind,
so close they could consume you,
But not too close that they won't wait until you start to rot,
Not rotting. Only starting.