The scars on my forearm are fading
but the ones in my head
like to laugh at my efforts
my efforts to be a better person
when I know what inside
I’m selfish
and rude
sometimes I don’t even know why I try
to make friends
I end up pushing them away
sometimes by accident
there are three versions of myself
past me, who hates future me
future me, who hates past me
and present me, who is fleeting
and hates both of my other selves
to convince myself to do anything
I have to act as though I am helping
future me, instead of myself.
if I try to help myself,
I end up saying “fuck it”
and it never gets done
maybe one day I can just
lay in a ditch
dead with an extra hole in my head
the gun that was used
was stolen out of my hands afterward
work ethic spiraling down the drain
because I don’t know what to do with my life
other than just get through the day
I can’t think about the future for very long
there are no goals for myself
other than for my lifespan
to not last longer than thirty-five.
even my conscious mind knows that is a lie
because I don’t know what to do with my life
even though there is some hope that I will have something
by the time I reach thirty-five.
my life
somehow never feels like it is mine
it feels as though I am a marionette
and someone else is doing the work.
one time,
my friend figuratively split me open
and I was forced to lay bare
the hatred for past me
and present me
that all of the versions of myself
feel for all of us.
so many people
I manage to hate in a day,
because I can’t manage
to be nice to other people.
it shouldn’t be a surprise
because I can’t be nice to myself
so why did I think that I could be nice to others?
I don’t understand myself,
or why past me does the things that they do,
because maybe it is just to piss off future me
past me is a little bitch.