Hangnail
“I hate this textured wallpaper,” you said, peeling a paper hangnail downward. Sub‑dermal plaster tasted afternoon air.
The stained glass that summits the staircase slicked Barolo and Sauvignon across the wall’s new gulping mouth.
The house recognised the rips in your inflection, Apertures in the floorboards witnessed the wall’s first face.
A plaster‑pearl sore began to cure.
Your last house, the one in the valley, had thinned your spirit. A reckoning for the ribs you had to break. Hacking its loose filler flecks up onto laminate flooring.
You taught me resuscitation is in agency… the rest is decoration.
Hilltop revelations found in the yearlong fingerprints of that textured paper membrane.
Keep your tear as it was given.
Posted Jan 27, 2026, 11:25 AM UTC