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.
when an artist wants to show you their art
or a writer wants you to read what they’ve written
it’s quite often an expression of trust
because a poem or a story or a painting are often things that come from the heart
little pieces of the artists themselves
and if they’re willing to share it with you
you should appreciate it