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 windon during Febuary. My bones crack on a nightly basis. I fall from
elegance with a dull thud, and I apoligize for 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 has
become a storm. You don't see the lightening but you hear the echoes.