wandering soul

  • The Things We Carry

    I used to think I was a cactus. Turns out I wasn’t. I was just a stubborn plant trapped in bad circumstances. Back then I lived in a dented coffee can sitting on the floorboard of an old eighteen-wheeler. The man who carried me around wasn’t much different than I was. We were both things…

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  • We stand at the confessional before a stranger who will never become our friend, baring sins that should never have been spoken into air. Some truths were meant to rot in silence, some names never to pass across the lips of certain company. Letters strung together summon ghosts, dragging us back into a moment in…

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