It's a mountain by now.
Plate upon plate upon bowl,
stacked higher than physics should allow,
all stained a slightly different colour of neglect.
Cutlery balance on the rim of dirty mugs
that sour the air around them.
I feel guilty when I add to their misshapen brethren, commit another utensil to its graveyard.
And yet still,
I watch it build and I wait,
morbidly,
for it
to come
crashing
down.