I.
I walk into rooms like I’m apologising for breathing—
shoulders hunched, voice tucked in,
smile stapled on like it might fall off under inspection.
Every hello feels like an intrusion,
like I’ve stepped into a space not built for me,
and all I can think is:
they’re just being polite,
waiting for me to leave so they can exhale again.

II.
I scroll through conversations I never start.
Typing… deleting… typing…
wondering if “hey” is too much or not enough.
My anxiety builds a fortress around my fingers,
tells me I’m annoying before I’ve even hit send.
Tells me they don’t want to hear from me,
they’re just being kind—
not interested. Not invested. Not staying.

III.
You don’t understand what it’s like
to choke on silence in a room full of laughter.
To feel invisible but too loud at the same time—
like your existence is a glitch in the soundtrack.
I rehearse every word I say in my head five times,
and still hear myself getting it wrong.
I walk away from every interaction
like I’ve just handed someone a reason to leave.

IV.
I don’t approach people anymore.
Not because I don’t care—God, I care too much—
but because rejection feels like acid in my throat.
So I stay still.
Pretend I don’t see the open doors,
because if I walk through them and they close—
even gently—
I’ll hear the slam for years.

V.
I flee from platonic love before it finds me.
Push away anyone who looks too closely.
Because if they saw the mess behind my eyes,
the constant self-sabotage,
the way I hate myself in the quiet…
they’d run.
So I run first.
At least this way, I get to control the heartbreak.

VI.
Sometimes I sit on the edge of my bed
and try to remember a time I didn’t feel like a burden.
My mind spins stories where people only love me out of pity,
where every compliment is a countdown
to when they’ll finally realise
I’m not worth the energy they spend pretending.
And I believe it—
because I’ve never been able to believe I deserve anything more.

VII.
I wish I could scream loud enough
to drown out the voice inside me that says
you’re too much and never enough all at once.
But instead, I whisper apologies into the dark,
curl around the ache like it’s the only thing that won’t leave.
And maybe that’s the worst part—
how familiar this loneliness feels,
how at home I’ve become
in rooms with locked doors
and no one knocking.