This is what the shipwreck coast does to life.


Beats it down, makes it small, misshapen.




Conquers it completely.


These small plants out on the cliff tops speak in quiet meek voices.


They say, “and yet, I live.”


I am not a plant. While I feel just as pummelled and low and bristly and twisted and maggoty, there is no satisfaction for me in merely existing. I want to be a person I’m not ashamed or embarrassed of. I want a life that I don’t need to run away from. Can you imagine such a thing?

I can’t.