SWEET TEEN BEFORE I EXPLORE

I am a storm in a teacup, small — but always on the verge of spilling. The world says I’m young, but my thoughts are old, wrinkled with worry. My mirror shows a girl with sleepy eyes, but inside, I’m a library of silent screams. Each shelf stacked with "almost," "not enough," "too much." I try to speak in full sentences, but the walls echo me back in fragments. Even my shadow leaves when the light gets too soft. I am a lighthouse, searching for a ship that never sails my way. I beam and blink, but no one sees — or maybe they just don’t look. They say teen years are golden, but mine feel like rust — slowly peeling, flaking, forgotten in corners. My heart wears earphones, but it only plays the static of unmet hopes. I’m tired of pretending that I’m okay with being everyone’s background noise. All I ever wanted was to be somebody’s favorite silence.