I am not a graceful person. I am not a Sunday morning or a Friday sunset.

I am a Tuesday 2 a.m., 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 lightning, but you hear the echoes.