鈥淚 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 window during February. My bones crack on a nightly basis. I fall from elegance with a dull thud, and I apologise for my awkward sadness. I sometimes believe that I don鈥檛 belong around people, that I belong to all the leap days that didn鈥檛 happen. The way light and darkness mix under my skin has become a storm. You don鈥檛 see the lightning, but you hear the echoes.
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