This feeling of inadequacy
Has followed me throughout my life.
Always perceived as an offbeat person,
Someone who doesn’t quite fit in
It has never been something I wanted.
From childhood to adulthood,
It has weighed on me, a quiet burden.

I’ve often wondered:
What is it about me
That makes people so curious,
Draws them in,
Only to later say I’m « too much »?
The push and pull of relationships
Leaves me lost,
Constantly questioning: What is it this time?
Why am I the way I am?

Internalizing every rejection,
Each one whispers the same question:
What is it in me that repels people?
I’ve never felt in my place,
Never truly belonged.

Sometimes, I resent myself—
For being who I am,
For not knowing how to be different,
For failing to conform,
For always questioning the world
Instead of simply accepting it.

I am my harshest critic,
Endlessly scrutinizing
My inability to connect
The way I so desperately want to.

To be someone who is meant to connect,
Yet unable to truly reach others,
Is the deepest wound.

The price of being authentic
Is heavy,
And at times,
The cost feels far too high.

R-D