i feel the constant weight of being too much;

it is an itch i am always trying to scratch but never seems to budge,

an ache in my bones that grows heavier with age,

an insect caught in the confines of my mind, buzzing aimlessly throughout the day

i worry i am a bother to those whom i cherish

i worry that they simply tolerate my presence 

little anxieties cloud my head with a steady, pulsating rhythm

i think they would be at peace if i were to keep silent and listen

i cannot grapple with the secrecy of thoughts

i am crawling to know how i come across

are my words seen as cruel or sarcastic or witty?

do i appear insincere or do i exude authenticity?

 

i often ponder about the nature of these contemplations

are they a byproduct of girlhood, or simply adolescence?

psychological insecurity seems common in young women

worries of egotistic perceptions is the female condition

personalities reduced to the expectancy of acquaintances 

a stifling of character out of fear of unacceptance 

 

but i know that my love is my greatest aptitude,

the ability to care and have the utmost gratitude 

to conceal this virtue out of concerns of annoyance

would reduce me to a body without human subsistence 

so i will continue to be fawning and needy and too much

as it fills me with unease and my skin starts to flush