Hatescript

The narrow corridor of dust has gathered on the edges 
of furniture, floorboards and f-
no let it be e-
existence. The belly-churning papers and letters, files and eyedrops, money and umbrellas
packets and plastics, my long-lost vices and lovesongs have all
specks of dust. They are waiting. I 
feel I should do something about tearing down the place
or falling asleep so that they
bind fast my wrists and tongue. 
Dust, I mean. For I wake up to zigzags of urine all over my place,   
half-burnt matchsticks, toothpicks, your lovely hatespit on my chest and
rosepetals from the cemetery.