tw sa/sh but what’s the point of having a blog and never using it?

i’m back on my vhs glitch bullshit, and here we go again. i made a vlogmas trailer/intro;

but i don’t know if i’m doing vlogmas, even though i’ve been filming.

i guess i should make my glitchy witch bitch 2021 youtube intro soon.

other videos i made since then include but are not limited to:

(this one got me a kind of okay music talent scout email!)

these were (mostly) so fun to make!

i included SA/rape/domestic abuse helplines in the youtube post for the video where i cover little mix and mention that user9429450 aka my ex casey, who i loved deeply and fucked up around too, but who honestly fucked me up worse after i left another ex for being emotionally abusive and physically threatening/breaking my stuff. he was not what i needed. he sexually assaulted me, which i woke up to, while he was drunk. i’ll include resources below:
https://thehotline.org
https://ncadv.org
in the USA, you can call 1-800-799-7233
crisis text line: text SUPPORT TO 741-741

i’m listening to miley cyrus’ plastic hearts album, and telling you about it for a blog post, livejournal style. but this is not livejournal. this is wordpress. golden g string is a banger; a very good song. i feel like miley cyrus has grown hugely in the past several years.

i have a new boyfriend, and gel nails he paid for (the nail tech was tipped generously and i politely complied when they asked to take my temperature)…everything should be okay. depression and mental illness still has me in its raw-thistle-hands rough-bleeding-wounds-skin choke-hold-kill situation… but i did also switch to a new antidepressant, well, restart an old one; wellbutrin. it has helped me in the past. it works on dopamine, not your serotonin. it does lower your seizure threshold and increase that risk.

i changed my twitter and instagram urls. at first they were private, even ig, but i have uin-privated my mains. so, if you check those, check that out. i updated the links here. i’m sure my stalkers and harassers will be thrilled.

i want to write more. i want to read more. goals for 2020 – or tomorrow?

you can join my discord server, where i spend a lot of my time, automatically if you have discord & have it linked with patreon, and you pledge $1 or more to me/month. this is the link. the url is just zelie, like so many other things.

i love you all. as i vape thc, i wonder about future plans tattooing myself and learning to use a machine and power supply, and shader needles… not something i’d recommend to most… but i am allergic to metal so piercings are difficult (i learned this after piercing my tongue and nipples, oh no!) and besides, my favorite therapist i’ve ever had, who was good at therapy, told me that tattooing myself is an acceptable alternative to cutting myself. so. i win (i always win.)

anyways, mostly i just wanted to update you all! remind me to post more. love u.

xoxo

thinking about self harm without actually self harming

i am full, i feel full
of bitterness and maggot-like creatures
i am rotting from the inside out
my organs are foul with the stench of fear
i wish to shine like gold
i watch myself in a mirror
dull instead of shiny yet in pain

is there anything more ugly than me
is there anything more beautiful
than some perfect tragedy executed excellently
i wish to feel okay
safe and secure in the knowledge that
i will be okay (i might)
but i wait and continue to rot

a mp3 file sings sweet promises
mainlined to my ears
to get to my brain, to my heart
i listen but do i believe?
doubt is a terrible monster
i know with time i will be
rotting but healing too

it doesn’t matter if you lie to me
(except the world depends on it)
(my world) (the one that i live in)
watch me take hurt seriously, watch
as i make my skin bleed
solemn but unwise, my attempts only
make me rot faster. nothing else

my pills can’t stop me from accelerating this time
your words can’t pull things off my skin
like invisible leeches and visible blades
my skin can pull apart and away and
i don’t want you to know how cold
i can be when i am scared
how cold i have been to other people

i am so very, very, very, very
that and afraid
does it matter that i am afraid?
will you be here later to pull off my invisible leeches
to pry them from my skin like
i once watched a man pry a tick
but i never called him or saw him after that day

you, i feel, are different
even if only in the sense that i had a feeling
a hope that you were something i never
hoped for or wished for
it felt too selfish.
i suppose i did it anyway subconsciously
but today i am rotting for you

i want to live and heal and breathe
so marvelously; with such strength!
i want to conquer my fears and become
better faster stronger
more mentally agile and less mentally unstable
but i rot, rot, rot
i might lose what’s left of my mind before you’re here

not extinct

i’m here. not extinct. for now.
it was a meme, a cute tidbit from the net
now it lives inside my head forever too
i’m not extinct. see, i like that
to put it obviously: it implies i am endangered
but still alive!

what a joy. what a thing.
something, at least, to be alive still
i can’t talk about how badly i’m doing
without instinctively smiling because
i’m scared someone will put me back.
inside the hospital.

it’s not so much, so little, so anything
that these monsters need to be extinct
extinct unlike me. for now at least.
maybe my rapist needs to be fired from the local psych ward
but i already reported him twice
i remain alive.

i fought on out of spite. i did it.
for six months i swear i didn’t even want to die.
after the second time that i have in my memory
i guess it lasted too long, or i had too many injuries after
or maybe the second rape is just worse, but i didn’t want to die
prove he couldn’t do that to me

nobody can do that to me
i could go through worse. i almost always can.
the only person allowed to hurt me is myself
the only person i let touch my soft core
is the little demon that lives inside me
fills me with self hatred.

cuts me up. inside. where it hurts.
it doesn’t hurt outside like the knives in my stomach do
and brain and heart and being always ache
when i have taken razors or scissors or nail files or needles to my skin
it hasn’t hurt so much as bled. i sit here crying and writing
this is an alternative to the tiny weapons

it’s not uncommon to keep a kit
a little box full of self-harm tools
it’s been written about in comics and essays before
it’s been evident from the tiny metal boxes i hide in my room
i invite too many friends over for my loneliness to choke on
to be visibly this sick.

i haven’t even used the kit in months.
i thought my friend was dead, again, but this time more so
i considered it but honestly
what is the point of a wound when a death will do the job better
and though i stopped caring about living for revenge after some time passed
i still stay alive for my cat and

i guess, i suppose, my new antidepressant is working.
it’s hard to admit when you are attached to your sick girl identity,
but then when i think about attempting with these deadlier pills–
i think about how i’d feel if i survived and they were taken from me
it’d only be my own damn fault. not extinct.
if i died, would that be better?

the slow ache of the invisible prongs
of these ugly murky invisible starfish attaching themselves to my soft skin,
tugging at the edges and eating me from their middle
tearing away at my skin and my muscles
i cannot go there again. i would not, even for death
but death would be so sweet without the means to overdose

is the grass always greener, or whatever
in the sense that if i start to get better it will feel too uncomfortable
and if i start to breathe properly people will expect me to function
so i let myself starve instead. i let myself drown so, so slowly.
a drop of water in my mouth every week
eventually i will choke and drown

that’s the plan, right? that’s the method.
that’s how sometimes eating disorders are actually suicide.
how you can hurt your family less by giving them a disease to blame
rather than themselves
if it was accidental and just got too severe, it won’t hurt them much, right?
neither my mother or i want to outlive each other.

but i am moving tomorrow. today. it’s 2:46am as i write this.
i am not packed and i am running out of hours to keep surviving in a way
that keeps others happy…of course i can’t keep myself happy while not extinct.
but there’s only one me and if i died, i would be. extinct.
no more pink haired sick girl to listen to her friends and cuddle xena
and no chance at some kind of future like i want to want

the message is always positive at the last minute, the paragraph i write before i publish.
so that nobody reads this, calls the authorities on me & causes a panic attack or worse.
and also so that i learn to one day believe my own words. live on and write more of them.
each paragraph here is getting longer, maybe my life will be similar, maybe i’m not so bad
not so doomed, not so destructive. maybe i can get better.
i have to remind myself, but it’s not just words, it’s the truth.

a chance may not be much.
but i am still lucky to have that.
i am still thankful to have that. i think.
i will still keep fighting because truly what else is there to do
besides the obvious. isn’t it too obvious?
wouldn’t it be amazing if i died of old age rather than suicide?

maybe i can

a first step

the girl on youtube tells me, and many other viewers, don’t kill yourself, because her sister did, and she suffers for her sister’s actions years later
she talks of the stinging and hurt after
the questions and anger
she means it
i listen and for a few hours i am quietened

my best friend on imessage tells me, and spends half an hour explaining why in great detail,
i should not kill myself
they mean it
they love me and they would be so angry at me if i tried and failed
they would be so angry at me if i tried

my boyfriend on skype sits there with his head resting on his hand, he too told me not to kill myself, and now he is at a loss for words
he was tired before we started talking
i cannot help but wonder if his life would be easier
without me in it
he tells me otherwise when i voice this thought to him. he means it.

my mom left my apartment earlier after watching the aforementioned youtube video with me, because she has cats and a home to attend to
when i ask if i should kill myself, she always says no, no matter how tired of talking to me she is
i wonder what kind of monster would ask their mother that
and justify the act of killing myself within my imagination
by my own selfish actions. but no matter how tired her voice is when she tells me she does not want me to die, she means it

my throat hurts from crying and i am too scared to say it to myself
why is it so easy to vocalize self-hatred and deprecation
to wish the worst upon myself
to mean it
and so hard to even speak that i do not want to die, i do not want to lie, but i want maybe one day to be happy

i aim for hope and fall short every time, kissing the ground with my cheekbones, grazed
freshly bleeding and in need of sanitization
everyone tells me that i will one day not regret staying alive
i write this poem in a vague attempt to do something more productive than hurting myself
i wish i could want the things others want for me for myself. i say that aloud. it is a first step

never had stitches

i’ve never had stitches
never felt the curved needle poke through my flesh
when i fell backwards onto hard concrete
and my head split open
it was medical glue that they used to put me back together

i’ve never had stitches
never cut my skin so deep that the wound couldn’t heal itself
there was that one time i probably should have
but it healed and now
there is only a large scar on my left thigh where i could have had stitches

i’ve never had stitches
never been brave enough to climb a tree high enough
to fall far enough to break open flesh and bleed out until sewed up
i avoid these hazards daily
anxiety keeps me safe from all kinds of injury – but good things too

i’ve never had stitches
my viscera is inside me and i haven’t needed surgery on it yet
Endoscopy, Colonoscopy, MRI, X-Rays, CT scan, Blood Tests
and of course also Etc, miscellaneous tests
no diagnosis came from them but also no need to be sewed up afterwards

i’ve never had stitches
mental illness is a wound that won’t heal on its own
it has been haunting me in multiple forms for years
but stitches are a disproven treatment method
for my cocktail of severe diagnoses that hurt invisibly without fail

i’ve never had stitches
i’ve had more than 200mg of klonopin in my body as an attempt to end my days
i was in the ICU in a coma for some time
then the psych ward
but suicidality is another wound of mine they can’t seem to stop from hemorrhaging

i’ve never had stitches
i am thankful to have never medically needed them enough
at least enough that i would have died without
or become infected
but believe me when i say, you don’t need to have had stitches to have felt pain