I am not a graceful person.
I am not a Sunday morning, or a Friday sunset.
I am a Tuesday, 2am., 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 don't believe I 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 lighting, but you hear the echoes.