I am so pathetically intense.
I just canβt be any other way. β Sylvia Plath
I am intense and I think that scares people away.
I am intense. I feel things deeply, grasp skin tightly, and linger on too lovingly and desperately as if I were afraid of forgetting. I feel and I feel the world intensely β as if I am surrendering to the pulls of something that was not even trying to pull me in. I feel and I feel the world intensely β as if my fingers crumble at the touch of a lit match, or as if my limbs were cut off every time I tried to hold on to things I should have walked away from a long time ago. When I am in sorrow, I cry and the tears would be as big as my heart beating in despair. When I am enraged, I am as sane as a wise man on the outside but my insides are burning and turning my flesh into coal. When I am disheartened, I cannot even leave the crumpled sheets of my bed. When I am lonely, I want to be alone yet cannot bear isolation.
I am intense. I have my heart on my chest, a heart on my neck, and hearts under my sleeves. They would shatter at the faintest touch and they pray you would see them when I speak the truth. I rot and I rot loudly. I stand and stumble and still want you to see me. I am a bottle that is full every single day; I am a bottle that keeps accepting water even when I am overflowing. I am so intense that I cannot just sit down and not feel, think, or fantasize about anything. I would cry for people I do not know, hear people who do not care about me, and love people who cannot do the same. I crave and crave and crave something from the vast sea that I need to be salvaged β or else, I cannot be limited. I cannot build boundaries and not expect you to tear them down.
I am intense. I have so much love, so much grief, so many emotions that I do not know where to put them down. These are all I have. When I let go of this intensity, I will have nothing. I am intense and I am on my knees. Please, do not reject my intensity. Please, do not ignore me. Please, do not stop talking to me. Treat this intensity with the same intensity, because who would condemn us for being this way? Why would you desire to be any less and any other way?
To love this way is the very purpose of loving: As if we were the only people alive. To live this way is the sole meaning of living: As if we would die the next morning.
I think about things intensely as if I could crack any second. I love people so greatly that I cry because I feel like they are not loving me as deeply as I love them. My nights become my days filled with needless introspections and daydreams that are supposed to be yearned during the day. When I weep, I cannot stop. When I laugh, I cannot be silenced. When I speak, I will talk like a movie. When I start loving, it will never end. When I think, I will be awake all night. When I feel, I will be intense.
I am so pathetically intense. I just cannot be any other way.
