At the age when I should have been carrying a backpack full of dreams and deadlines

At the age when I should have been carrying a backpack full of dreams and deadlines, I carry insomnia stitched under my eyes like war medals for which no one applauds, They tell me "it's just a phase," but what if it's actually the story of my life? What if this is all I'll ever have, a sky of anxieties and broken hopes? I was told to stand still in storms, to face them with courage and strength, But the sky keeps screaming, and the lightning seems to know my name, Whenever I seek shelter, the umbrella turns into rusty knives, And I bleed from places I thought long healed and forgotten, I am weird, too weird to be loved properly and ever understood, Too quiet to be deciphered, but too loud inside to sleep, And I don't understand myself either, as much as I'd like to, I'm a mystery refusing to unfold, I pretend that the stares don't cut, but every glance is a scalpel on my skin, Every word is a drop of salt on open wounds that will not close, So I vanish, I distance myself, not out of peace, but from an instinct of survival, Because if they knew what resides within me, they'd leave quicker than they came, And I remain here, a wandering soul, oscillating between silence and a scream, Between the desire to be understood and the fear of being completely revealed to the world.