my friend asks me the same question three times before he hears my answer. i wonder if i actually said it the first two times. i see my red nails and i think about the blood and oh god, the blood and the pain. the way i felt high. the way i would give anything to feel like that again, and how maybe that's a sign. i think about my skin, and how i want to peel it off as i peel the potatoes for dinner because then there would be nothing left to scratch and pick and scar. i wonder if this is what they mean by compulsion, or if i'm just my own worst enemy. but fuck, it always feels so good. i think about blocking everyone in my contacts and running away. i think about going into the loft and burning all my things. i think about arson in general. about the lighter i still have somewhere. i think about the ducks near the boats in the river. how the water would turn red if they were caught in the propellers. i think about skydiving with no parachute just to feel alive. i think about hurting you so you could understand the pain i have felt. my hands shake as i think. i think. i think. i write this poem, and i wonder if i could make it more metaphorical. if i could ignore these thoughts a little more. i think about being hurt, about dying. about whether it would be easier to wake up and have to take pills or to take them all at once to not have to. i wonder if this is coherent enough. i keep thinking about obsession, and i wonder if this is it. if my writing is obsessive. i wonder if these thoughts i don't want to have are obsessive. i wonder if there really is something wrong, or if it's just my period. i think about the blood. i think about the river. i think about dying. but i tell my teachers i'm just unmotivated. tell my friends i'm just feeling a little down. tell my parents i'm just fed up. tell myself i'm just dramatic. i scare myself. i can't find the right way to end this, and i wonder if that is how i would end a very different letter too.