Trade me?

This is the life I have always known,
The walls and floor made of blackened bone
held tightly by vines with thorn,
and blood stained cloth that is torn.
In one of the black walls,
there are two holes that look down two halls.
One smells of fresh bread and trust,
the other smells of blood and rust.
I pick at the holes with bloody fingertips,
but I only succeed to bite through my lips.
Through the bone, vines, blood, holes, and cloth, I am afraid.
Afraid of why I want more than anything, to trade.
To trade with someone else and let them rot.
Rot in this dead hell that I brought.
Brought to myself, with gluttony and vain.
This is the life that I have always known, life of pain.