Written as a string of short, blunt lines, this is a poem about someone slipping into despair and suicidal thinking. The repeated "I think" gives it a heavy, circling rhythm. It starts with fears about being unloved ("You don't like me," "You rather be with him"), moves into harsh self-judgment ("ugly," "stupid"), and ends in thoughts of self-harm and death.
What stands out is how these beliefs are presented as thoughts, not facts, though the speaker seems unable to tell the difference. Each painful idea feeds the next, and the escalation feels like a spiral with no one stepping in. The plain language and lack of decoration make it feel raw and urgent. The final lines, "I will do it now," leave the mood bleak and frightening.
If this poem feels close to something you're going through, please talk to someone you trust, or contact a crisis line in your area, such as 988 in the US. Thoughts like these can feel certain, but they are not the whole truth.