Ode to TMI
This is a poem about fiery shits.
More specifically, this is a poem regarding the girl who told me that telling her I had them was “TMI.”
If only she knew what I didn’t tell her
That my disclosure of my butt volcano was quite surface level of me
It’s not that she didn’t ask
It’s the fact that they never do
And I tell them anyway
It’s not that I didn’t censor myself
It’s that I never have
It’s not that I don’t believe in TMI
It’s that I’ve never known how not to be too much.
When you are always too much,
The lines of “enough” blur
I am always past the fill line
I am always over capacity
I am always the foot in the door, ready to flee should the need arise
I am the reason for wet floor signs and buckets to catch the droplets of water leaking from the ceiling
Maybe I’m the ceiling
I give you bits and pieces
A drip here and a drop there
And I spill a little bit
But eventually the bucket fills and it overflows
Too much.
The reason why my asshole is burning and the reason I tell you about it is the same
I struggle with portion control.
It’s the same reason why I tell people on the first date the stories of my last heartbreak
You did not ask, but I tell you anyway
So you can cheat my puzzle out of the mystery
I tell you exactly which pieces fit where
I will then celebrate you upon completion.
It only takes paying attention.
I overshare because once I start I cannot stop
It’s the sensation we all know
You give a little
And you get the runs
When you are unprepared for the occasion
Even a little bit is too much.
Conversations with me are like that
It’s a constant flow that my frontal lobe refuses to contain
And even if it did, I am unable
I don’t know just enough.
Me and TMI go way back.
I am great friends with “too much.”
I always have been.
And like the bag of takis,
I go all in.
I don’t know when to stop until it is over.
Not until it all goes up in flames.
Too much.
I am forthcoming in everything that I am
Discussing my last therapy session is what small talk for me looks like
I won’t mention the weather but I will ask whether or not you believe in love at first sight.
And I’ll tell you about the first time I saw her. And how I knew it was going to be her.
But you didn’t ask me any of that.
No, you asked me how my day was
But how can I tell you that without hashing out every single day, every single event, that led to this one?
How can I make sure you get the picture
If I don’t offer to frame it for you,
Pixel by pixel
Until I’m certain you’re viewing it in high definition
No one complains that HD TVs are too much.
They want it all.
And I remember that I am not a television.
But trust that I will tell you my vision
Even if you don’t want to hear it.
But that is how I function.
That’s who I am.
Being restricted in your expression
Adhering to censorship
It’s kind of shitty.
