"Too" raw

Perhaps it's too vulnerable, too honest, and too raw, but I'm a hot mess right now, and I don't know that I really need to keep holding up the front. Sometimes things fall apart. Sometimes it's your own damn fault, because you put too much stock in what everyone else is going to say. Because you've built yourself up to be all muscle and grit and walls. Because you are just too picky but apparently selling yourself short.... Basically, when you win, you lose. And everyone else has a better understanding of what I want and need than I do. So before this gets even more convoluted - know that the poem is straight up as it came out. It probably needs a lot of editing, a lot of work, but here it is for now.

Too

I am the dreaded
independent woman.
The one who's perpetually single,
too smart, too pretty, too fat, too skinny -
too-TOO
for most men.
That strong woman
who bought into the feminist ideal:
You, too, can have it all.
Except that here, in the quarterlife,
I'm struggling to find that.
Throw in this brown skin,
la mancha de plátano,
the crisis of the second generation.
I am too-TOO.
Too Latina, too American, too young, too old -
too picky.
I am that complete package:
beauty, brains, heart.
That's what they tell me.
They say "you could have anyone",
and they all fall.
But when I fall,
they say I sell myself short.
There's this:
sometimes that independent woman,
that strong woman,
that too-TOO woman,
needs a moment,
a series of moments,
to be like the rest:
to be a girl.
To fall carelessly and wrecklessly,
to doodle hearts in the margins,
to dream of weddings on a beach,
and to forget for a moment
everything that she's had
to build up and fight for
alone.
But when you're that woman
too tough, too strong, too hard -
everyone's watching.

*edited slightly already....