Wasted Trees and Words Unspoken

untitled.

if i loved myself,
like i tell everyone that i do,
then i wouldn't beat myself to a pulp
every morning, afternoon, and night,
until i'm left gasping for air
and trying to find the light
between the black dots and blurrrs clouding my vision.

but if i hated myself,
like i tell my reflection that i do,
then i would hate that little girl
from all those years ago,
or the teen that was on the verge
of making her birthday rain
red, melted snow.
so where is it, in the future, that i can find myself bandaging my old bruises?

i make my music my medicine
and turn my pain into art
while coach conscience tells me
"get back in that ring!"
and i don't have time to figure out
that i'm the cause of my own suffering
so until then, i stay the pretty young thing
writing pretty depressing poetry.