There are days when my whole body feels like an antenna —
too many signals, too many layers,
too many subtle frequencies that hit me all at once.
It’s not painful,
just overwhelming in a way that’s hard to name.
I feel the shift in someone’s mood
before they do.
I sense a lie in the breath
before the words arrive.
I hear every emotion that escapes
between sentences.
And when it becomes too much,
I go quiet.
Not because I’m withdrawing from the world,
but because silence is the only space
where I can gather myself.
People think quiet means empty.
But mine is crowded —
with observation, with intuition,
with all the things I don’t say
because not everyone deserves
that level of truth.
I don’t leave rooms because I’m difficult.
I leave because I know
the cost of staying too long
in places that drain me.
And I’m done paying with my own presence
just to be polite.
If I’m going to stay anywhere now,
it has to be a place
where I don’t have to bargain with myself
to exist.