memory almost full

I have a secret safe under my bed. I keep all my dust there.

Dust from well over 3 years ago. Pre and post-army dust, Breakup and get together dust. Tear and blood-soaked dust.

I think my dust knows me better than I know myself, which is only logical since I vibrate while it stands perfectly still. Collecting tiny pieces of skin I've shed banging my head against a wall, cutting glass with my fists, breathing idly at night. It knows my relationships through skin of my guests, strangers' cells beneath my bed. My mother's hurting, my spite and malice.