How do you tell them their little girl will die?

I am 15 years old. They say my mind is scattered stars, too many, too bright, too far apart. A sky that sparkles wildly, never settling into constellations. I try. God, I try. To sit still in a room that moves faster than me, to focus while my thoughts bounce like marbles down cathedral halls. The world whispers lazy while I carry lightning in my chest. I am chaos stitched in skin, a spark mistaken for a storm. Pain blooms behind my eyes, dark roses growing where thoughts should live. Migraines hum like broken hymns. Doctors scan, stare, and shift their tone. Masses press into the space that once held dreams, distractions, love, music, and fire. They call me brave. Fear curls around my ribs anyway. I don’t want to become a memory. I don’t want to be just the girl with messy hair, ADHD, and a ticking clock buried in her skull. I want to write songs in the dark. I want to kiss someone and feel it in my spine. I want to forget my meds without being punished by silence. I want to lose track of time without losing pieces of myself. Each day, I flicker. Light slips through me quietly, as if my brain is slowly erasing what makes me bright. Let them remember me as more than a mess. Let them hear the music I hum when no one listens. Let them see what I see: cracks in ceilings, truth behind blinks, love blooming in silence. I am a girl with a thousand unfinished thoughts, still, I am whole. The stars dim around me now. Still, I shine in broken patterns. Still, I hope someone like me lives long enough to finish the song.