small stones

my friend anna ( is doing this thing every day, for the whole of january. a small stone is, from what i gather, a small piece of writing that sums up the day in a crystalline way, it is a small stone of description and can describe something very miniscule, or very large, in a humble way. 

it’s now the 6th of january (well it’s very late so it’s actually the 7th) but i’m going to do mine now and do it for the rest of january, i think. here goes: 


the shower came through cold for the fourth time i’d tried it. i heard the whole house rumble awake as the heart of it broke and stopped its copper arteries from carrying any warmth and it reminded me of the squat we held when i was just 18. washing my hair in the sink with a half-boiled kettle, rotting from the inside out with my own lead pipes long since broken beyond repair. i was terrified of the world then. suddenly the memory of the cat shit on the kitchen floor, the blood that speckled any tissue i sneezed into, the matter-of-fact suicide notes i wrote as love letters and the freezing cold wet walls frightens me – the abandon, the detachment; and it’s the memory of the dissociation that smartly carries me upwards here today, and sees me settling down on the floor by the boiler, fixing the fucking thing, doing it for myself, because i need a shower and i am not going to wait any longer. 


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