I am not a graceful
person.
I am not a Sunday morning or a
Friday sunset. I am a Tuesday 2am, I am gunshots muffled by a
few city blocks, I am a broken window during February. My bones
crack on a nightly basis. I fall from elegance with a dull
thud, and I apologize for my awkward sadness. I sometimes
believe I don't belong around people, that I belong to all
the leap days that didn't happen. The way light and
darkness mix under my skin has become a storm.
You don't see the
lightening, but you hear the
echoes.