I am not a Sunday morning or a Friday sunset
I am not a graceful person. I am not a Sunday morning or a Friday sunset. I am a Tuesday 2am, I am hunshots muffled by a few city blocks, I am a broken window during February. My bones crack on an nightly basis. I all from elegance with dull thud, and I apologize from my awkward sadness. I sometimes believe that 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 had become a storm. You don’t see the lightning, but you hear the echoes.
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