I’m too much.
I’ve heard it in every sigh,
seen it in every glance that lingers just a second too long—
the weight of me suffocating the space between us.
I ask for too much,
but it never feels like it.
I don’t ask for the world,
just the bare minimum:
A little attention. A little care.
A little proof that I matter.
But somehow, even that’s too heavy.
Too big. Too loud.
I’ve learned to bite my tongue,
to shrink myself down to something easier to swallow.
Soft-spoken. Simple. Small.
An echo of who I was,
because maybe then,
I’ll be easier to love.
Spoiler alert: I’m not.
I’m always too needy,
too messy,
too complicated.
The kind of person you put up with,
but never choose.
The kind of person you forget as soon as the door closes.
I feel it every time I reach out,
fingers trembling in the dark,
hoping someone will hold on—
only to find the emptiness waiting for me again.
I want to scream,
“I don’t want much!”
Just to feel seen.
Just to not be forgotten.
Just to be the kind of person who matters to someone—
even for a little while.
But I’ve learned how this goes.
I ask,
and I become too much.
I stay quiet,
and I become invisible.
Caught somewhere between being too heavy to carry
and too easy to leave behind.
So, I sit with the weight of it.
The loneliness.
The ache that tells me I’ve always been replaceable.
A body that takes up space
but never quite fits anywhere.
And the worst part?
I still keep hoping.
Still keep waiting for someone to see me
and not run.
Even though I know they will.
They always do.
Feb 18, 2025
Feb 18, 2025 at 4:27 PM UTC
I’m too much.
I’ve heard it in every sigh,
seen it in every glance that lingers just a second too long—
the weight of me suffocating the space between us.
I ask for too much,
but it never feels like it.
I don’t ask for the world,
just the bare minimum:
A little attention. A little care.
A little proof that I matter.
But somehow, even that’s too heavy.
Too big. Too loud.
I’ve learned to bite my tongue,
to shrink myself down to something easier to swallow.
Soft-spoken. Simple. Small.
An echo of who I was,
because maybe then,
I’ll be easier to love.
Spoiler alert: I’m not.
I’m always too needy,
too messy,
too complicated.
The kind of person you put up with,
but never choose.
The kind of person you forget as soon as the door closes.
I feel it every time I reach out,
fingers trembling in the dark,
hoping someone will hold on—
only to find the emptiness waiting for me again.
I want to scream,
“I don’t want much!”
Just to feel seen.
Just to not be forgotten.
Just to be the kind of person who matters to someone—
even for a little while.
But I’ve learned how this goes.
I ask,
and I become too much.
I stay quiet,
and I become invisible.
Caught somewhere between being too heavy to carry
and too easy to leave behind.
So, I sit with the weight of it.
The loneliness.
The ache that tells me I’ve always been replaceable.
A body that takes up space
but never quite fits anywhere.
And the worst part?
I still keep hoping.
Still keep waiting for someone to see me
and not run.
Even though I know they will.
They always do.
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