W A V Y B A B Y

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 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 apologize for my awkward sadness.
I sometimes don't believe I belong with people, I feel like I belong with all the leap days that never existed.
The way darkness and light mix under my skin has become a storm.
You don't see the lightning, but you hear the echoes.