“Too much”

I know I cannot be the only one who feels like they’re too much.
The only one who leaves an interview, escapes a party
and thinks
stupid
idiot.
I would like to believe that I’m not the only one who finds awkward silences
oppressive
who keeps fingers crossed for smooth sailing and positive energy
like a leprechaun waiting for a rainbow.
I have a feeling I’m not the only one
who believes in seamless vibes
more than the power of toothpaste or omnipotent
Gods looking down through ignorant skies.
I know I am not the only person who finds chit chat stifling,
airy words escaping lips,
unburdened by their lack of meaning or veracity.
I also think I’m not the only one who bristles at the word “normal”,
but who probably fancies herself a little too special while still never feeling
quite
special
enough.
Who perhaps puts too much emphasis on the unique, the individual.
Who wants to fit in but cringes at the hollow sound of carbon copies
stalking busy streets.
Who believes wholeheartedly in the power of the social,
in relationships, but finds real ones passing through her fingers
like silt in a stream.
Who has been called “too much” by lovers,
has been labeled “needy”, “whiny”,
and who knows that somewhere in those words is something like truth.
I would like to think I’m not the only one who recognizes that
the onus is on her shoulders,
who is ever-cognizant that her ego shouldn’t puff up too big,
that her aura should do the work instead,
even if she’s not 100% sure that that’s a thing.
I surely cannot be the only one who sits in silence and traces her thoughts —
heavy outlines like the hulking shadows clouds make over busy ants and tired streams.
Who craves connection yet fears her presence is overbearing.
Who suspects her tendency to spill whatever is inside or sitting atop her mind
comes off as brash, as insensitive as
plain
and
simple
annoying.
And what’s more, for all my transparent emotions and feelings,
I can see that I’m not the only one who hides behind screens,
who ingests the artificial rush of little hearts and red notifications
like spongy bread stripped of nutrients.
Who glances to the person sitting to her right and wrestles with the fundamental urge pressing, to
say hello.
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