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

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