at thirteen, they carried a crush like a secret flame.
it flickered into friendship, reduced to birthday wishes.
never enough, but safer that way.
at sixteen, someone gave them everything.
love across distance, devotion across miles.
but dependency whispered: if they’re not here, it’s not real.
so they left. too much need, never enough presence.
at eighteen, their online best friend wrote poems
that stitched galaxies into words.
they read every line, every promise,
but borderline shadows said: the world is not enough if it’s not in my hands.
so they let go.
at twenty, they smoked too much.
or maybe they just loved too hard.
either way, someone left.
and the echo was clear: you are too much.
at twenty-one, another came, traveling 743 miles.
every mile a confession, every step a vow.
but depression sat in their chest like a void,
and nothing filled it.
they broke a heart that had already crossed oceans of effort.
at twenty-three, they swore to their mother: this is the one.
mania painted certainty,
but PTSD whispered doubts too sharp to ignore.
they left again. too much fire, never enough peace.
and at twenty-three again,
someone loved them first.
they loved harder.
but when boundaries rose like walls, the answer was familiar: we’re not compatible, you’re too much.
their diagnoses are not curses,
but mirrors.
anxious. dependent. avoidant. borderline.
manic highs, depressive lows.
a body carrying trauma in its bones. a heart swinging between adoration and abandonment.
they are not broken.
they are a cycle, a story still being written,
caught between being too much
and never enough.
Creator of this post? You can edit it here using the edit code you chose while posting.