She is more, more, more, more, more.

She warned me, in the first few weeks of being together, that she was "a lot." At the time, I didn't think anything of it, for how much could one person truly be? 

I found out. She was not a liar. 

She is too much. She has an abundance of everything and I'm getting exhausted, not even just plain tired, of picking up all her pieces and leaving all of mine strewn about in a rather unflattering manner. What about me? She says I can talk, but can I? I'm beginning to suspect that I'm about to be a piece of her that falls off, and then who will pick me up? Certainly not her, although she'll try–I think she'd just make it worse. Truthfully, honestly, hand on my heart, if I fall apart I don't want her anywhere near me. I want her gone, I want her so far removed that she never even knew anything happened. 

I feel there's no room for me here. She takes up all the space and I'm left clinging onto my place with two fingers, nails raw and bleeding from the grip I'm using to keep myself afloat. I love her, but is this really what love is? Trying to stay afloat in unhappiness and flagrant distaste of the other person? I've come to loathe her, every time she contacts me, every time I have to pick up the phone and she's the one on the other end, I look for every excuse to just get away. 

I used to have moments of what I thought were clarity, that I wanted to be around her and she could make me happy, that talking to her would make me feel better, but I was wrong. This, what I'm feeling now, this is clarity. This new, festering hatred I have of her as my partner. There is no room for me in this relationship and why it took so long for that to become clear, I'm not sure. I'm drowning in her presence, and it is not with love or affection. It is with sadness and now, hatred. 

I don't want to tell her anything anymore. I want to keep myself as private as possible, and I think it's because so much of her is laid bare, so when I lay down too, will she even care or will she cover it up as she has done before–yes, it's been done before. 

For every singular moment of weakness I have, she has five. For every tear I shed, she sheds twenty. For every ache and groan, she has more. More, more, more, more, always more. She's more sad, more sick, more upset, more depressed, more attached, more clingy, more starved, more, more, more, more. 

I am not more. I am lacking. I lack the proper empathy, I lack the proper knowledge, I lack what is necessary to exist in the same arena as her. I lack in love, I lack in compassion, I lack in feeling. 

Where I lack, she is in abundance. She loves greatly, cares deeply, wants wholly, and where does that leave me? My violent tendencies are always in check, my anger is reined so tightly that my knuckles are either white from grip or purple from the expulsion of my emotions. It's like there is a bit in my mouth and she is pulling the reins so tight that the foam spilling out of my mouth is nothing short of visceral. Her abundance smothers mine, and her more suffocates my lack. 

There is so much of her here, and where am I? I am the whisper behind her, I am the wind in her back that just pushes her forward, while I am left gripping the strings of myself that I have managed to hold on to. 

She cares for me, and that's the worst part. She cares for me so greatly, and what do I care of her anymore? I care, truly I do, but there is so much of it pouring out of me that it's beginning to match hers. But her care for me…it is not the same. She cares that I am always happy, that I am always alright and blithe, and I care about other things; that she is healthy, that she is eating (even though I can't talk about that because she has told me not to), that she is also happy and exuberant, but it is not the same. I care so much more… Perhaps I am not lacking in everything. 

The worst is, I love her. I love her and I believe that is why I have not ended it. I thought I would, I thought I would have the strength and courage to do it, but do I? If I leave, who is going to take care of her? I fear that once I end it, I will no longer want to be around her. She will remind me of the love I felt and how it turned sour in my mouth at any remembrance of her. This love truly is toxic. Not for her, never for her, but it is toxic for me. I am drowning and suffocating in her presence and it is my fault, I know it is, but how am I supposed to say no to her when I love her? 

Is this love? I've begun to wonder, as I write, if this is love or if it is the memory of the love I once had for her. I will always love her as my friend, but I'm not sure I am in love with her anymore–and who do I tell? Certainly not her, not yet, but can I tell anyone else after joyfully expressing my happiness and exuberance with her? I don't think I can. I don't think anyone could, for how do you take back those words so quickly? The love is rotting in my heart, and there are no flowers growing from it… not yet.