Not Too Much

They called it extra. I called it holy.

This poem is for the version of me who got told to tone it down. Who sparkled anyway. Who wore color in grayscale rooms and laughed too loud in the quiet.

If you’ve ever been called too much — this one’s for you. You’re exactly right.

They used to call me too much. I call it showing up exactly right.

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Not Too Much

(a poem by Adam Rye)

I’m not too much.
I’m exactly the dose
your spirit forgot it needed.

The extra sparkle on a cloudy day,
the laugh that echoes too loud
because silence never felt safe.

I glow like someone underestimated,
who still chose to love louder,
to dance wider,
to kiss like I mean it—
even if you flinch at the heat.

I’m not waiting to be picked;
I’m already planting my garden.
Sowing joy, flirtation, fire—
the bees come buzzing without an invite.

You don’t have to join.
But don’t call it “too much”
just because it won’t fit inside your jar.

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I used to shrink to survive. Now I pose like this just because I can.

Backstory: Still Here

I’ve been called too loud, too femme, too weird, too much — like joy should come with a volume knob.
But I’m autistic. I get excited. I light up when I talk about something I love. I beam when someone else lights up too.
And yeah, I get loud. I take up space. Not because I think I’m the center of attention — but because life is actually kind of a blast when you let it be.

I used to shrink myself to fit in. Now I bloom anyway.

This poem isn’t a clapback. It’s a celebration.
A reminder that being “too much” just means you’re fully alive in a world that keeps asking you to tone it down.

Not Too Much is for every queer kid who got shushed. Every tender soul who thought being smaller might feel safer.
Turns out we’re not too much — we’re just right.

I’m not waiting to be picked. I’m already having a blast. You’re invited, but I’m going either way.