Too Much

I found it in a box from the back of the closet —

the yearbook, tenth grade, spine cracked down the side.

I wasn't looking for it. I was looking for the modest

version of myself I thought I'd find inside.

She wrote it in blue ballpoint, small and neat:

"you're a lot sometimes lol :)" — the colon-

parenthesis face, the afterthought receipt

that makes the damage seem more like a loan.

I read it three times. Put it back. Took it out again.

The ink was smeared a little at the word "lot,"

like she'd written it fast, no second look, and then

capped the pen, already thinking of the next shot.

I made myself smaller the year after.

I can trace it. I can see the seam.

She was probably already laughing

at something else by then.