Untitled

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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 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.

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