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"I’m not graceful.
I’m not a delicate kiss, nor a magnificent sunset. My wrists aren’t elegant; my legs don’t reach the stars. I am a Monday morning, bleary eyed and coffee energised. I am bushy eyebrows, and split ends. I am the bruise from walking into the side of the door. I am the broken bottle from Friday night, lying on the floor empty, stripped of its label, on a Saturday morning. I’m the broken window in April, beckoning to the oncoming winter winds. I’m the book that lays dogged eared and unfinished, the coffee stain on the table, the unmade bed. I apologise for awkward silences and scamper from sympathy. I crack from others pain, and hide my own in my shoes, curled between my toes. I laugh too raucously, and cry too softly. I never get the punch line quick enough, and trip up stairs.
I’m not graceful.
But –"
- c.s