Every person who lives in their own world are mad.

I am not a Sunday morning nor a Friday sunset. I am a Tuesday 2 a.m., screams 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 darness mix under my skin has become a storm. You dont see the lightning but you hear the echoes.