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 ***** 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.