I want to love you;

I want to melt into your lips;

I want to cry

Myself to sleep

Until all I can feel is bliss,

Until I can no longer dismiss

My ache, my desire for you

Against my hips,

And until I die

Wondering why

It wasn’t me you missed.

Because I still care.

Like a mad, desperate fool,

I’m caught in your snare.

Shackled by the ankles,

I’m hypnotized—

Drowning, God, I can’t breathe—

By your touch, by your stare.

And still—I’m dutifully swallowing

Every lie you share,

Even as I’m pulling out

Ever-increasing clumps of hair.

I hate myself,

But oh, how I love you more.

You’re perfect, you’re beautiful,

And bad for me, I swore.

But now I care,

And you’ve so kindly stripped me bare.

Vacant, empty—my heart is yours

To tear.

Drained,

I’m a dead body

On the floor—

You’ve lost me;

You’ve touched me;

I don’t know

Anymore.

Kill me.

For if I don’t have your love,

You might as well reincarnate me

As a dove.

Seek me

Out in the next life.

Love me,

Hate me—

Pull out the knife.

Trust me,

For I am yours.

Don’t look at me

With such solemn remorse.

I love you

So, so, so,

So, so, so

Much.

So why do you cringe

When I offer myself up to touch?

i honestly don’t know how i feel about this, but—

thank you for reading,

cali <3

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Everything—

And God knows it’s true.

When the worst came to play,

I couldn’t rise

To the occasion, so I watched as

I withered and fell away.

Little seedlings I became,

Sheddings of love, silvery threads,

Spreading it all

Until I was tame.

I didn’t know it was killing me.

As my wispy leaves floated in the wind,

I carried on, I carried forth—

Oh, but Father, forgive me,

For I have sinned.

I do not know

When it will end.

Oh, but Father, You know

How easy it is to play pretend.

So I let it go:

All of it.

To the wind,

I thought I might glow.

Faerie dust or my own rust?

Only time would tell.

So, I floated away

And prayed

That the new day would bring

A smile, a spark of life—

Something that this—you—could not wring.

For I gave you my all,

And instead of holding me,

You watched me fall

And bury pieces of myself into the ground

So that my own heart might continue to pound.

Dandelions.

//

Signing out,

Cali <3

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Silence; a dull thrumming; is that radio waves

Crashing over me, crushing my body against stone?

A whiplash—this, I may no longer condone:

Chosen.

How you savor me on your lap in the chaise,

Holding me intimately—tightly—with the most performative grace.

Drowning.

Oh—darling, open your filthy mouth.

What’s the matter; can’t handle life once its gone south?

Rotting.

My body

Isn’t mine

Anymore.

Like an apple,

It’s become rotten—

Rotten?—

To the core.

There’s something in my throat.

A burning, an ache—a parasite, it takes

Until I am empty, nothing but bones that quake.

Devoured.

Lying in a pile of my own ruin,

I embrace the infantile peace as a tear worms its way down—

Screaming, crying, begging for release; like me, it was never easy to please.

Good.

Tell me: am I alive? Oh—darling, I don’t know.

What’s the matter; did you lose your soul?

Wanted.

“I love you, too,”

I manage with lips turned blue.

Icy, they are, wasted—when is it my turn for a wish come true?

With my lungs scrubbed clean, I cannot breathe—

A gasp, a whine. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it, I swear!”

But all of that gets swallowed by my love for you; I care

Too much.

Myself in the newspaper—shreds of it, everywhere.

Who actually reads them anymore? Forgotten, an antique of the past—

A memory.

Oh darling—with eyes so red, you look so blue.

What’s the matter; did your thoughts come true?

Consumed.

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a game, some childish ruse,

between you and me.

-

a test—one so terribly pathetic

that i, too, kept my fingers balled into fists

because i did not want to seem like

the fanatic.

-

i wish i had, though,

because now the phone never rings.

-

some nights in bed i’ll sit in silence

and think

about us, about my life alongside you.

i loved you; i always did—

still do.

-

but i cannot bring myself

to listen to my heart’s terrible longing

because deep inside i know

that means i’ll be the one calling.

-

“the bigger person,” mother used to insist,

following it closely with a gently-pressed kiss

to the spot between my brows,

to the baby wrinkle tugged taut by my frown.

-

it lingered:

the warmth, the ease,

all bundled into something precious, familiar,

cast as she pleased.

-

i used to wonder if that love,

so innate, so natural,

could be conditioned

because you, you, kept me wondering:

-

if i made you angry,

would your traitorous love disappear,

would it be gone—for good?

-

would it be my fault—

my emotions’ fault—

for being so naïve, so unsure,

of the world and what i must endure?

-

would it be my loss,

and mine alone,

that day i woke up

and realized i was on my own?

-

because this is what happened

between you and me,

and it is precisely why

the phone never rings.

-

i made you angry,

so angry, and it lingered:

the heat, the lick of fire down the nape of your neck;

like us, it was never put to rest.

-

so it swallowed you—and me, too.

consumed by flames, all we could do was name

each other’s flaws and each other’s trials, and

-

now we wonder

why the other

won’t stay a while.

-

i didn’t mean it when i said i hated you.

i never did—

i hope you know that’s true.

-

but like us, this letter will be devoured

until it is nothing more than ash,

and the clock will start again.

-

hour after hour will pass, and then

like a lovesick fool, i’ll be counting,

listening, waiting,

for the night you might call.

-

because i could have the world in my hands

and still wonder

why i don’t have it all.

hi,

i kissed the brick here like my mom kissed my forehead.

thanks for reading,

cali <3

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Where I want to swallow

The sun’s rays.

-

Oh, how I despise them

Shimmering and dancing along surfaces

With the feather-light grace of a polished gem.

Relentless, they are—

Despicable fiends.

-

My tongue is sandpaper—

A desert, a wasteland

Of my sculpted smile

Of clay, the one cracking

Under my mind’s

Unconscious denial.

-

I keep quiet,

For when I open my mouth,

I become a riot

Of fury, of fire.

My words—crimson-laced spires.

-

I do not yet know how to confess

That the sun’s kisses are my bane,

And I am dying

-

At your feet.

With my lips stitched and my hands tied,

“Good,” the sun will say,

As the blinding light promises yet another

Mind-numbing leech of—a beautiful day.

-

Down on my knees,

I will thank you

For the chilling breeze.

For the last time I burned.

For the lesson—I learned.

-

You will not let me rest,

Let me safely breathe,

Until I lie and say, “I’ve been blessed.”

-

Oh, but—

Pretty, the sun’s rays are.

Like a man’s velvet-soft voice whispering,

“Hello missis,” against the shell of my ear.

-

Pretty, so pretty—

Like the most perfect rose you spy,

The one you gawk at, admire,

Pluck, and hold up to your eye.

-

You will not cry

When you, at last, notice the sting,

For your ears will ring,

And like a doe-eyed damsel

Held for ransom,

You will look up

At the sun.

-

Pretty—but wretched.

I am livid,

Bound

By it.

-

Fastidious and deliberate,

I must stifle my fear,

The encroaching senselessness.

Blind and overbearing, it is—

a whisper of instinct.

-

I smile again,

And the shadow hanging over my expression

Ceased to be—had never been.

-

For God only knows

The horrors—my solace—

The day the sun goes extinct

-

And the darkness lingers,

If only for breakfast.

As always, thank you for reading! :)

Wishing you the best day/night,

Cali

Never let someone else’s light dim your own.

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and i thought that was strange—

because of course i did:

they were blue like the rain.

-

“i’ve had them since forever,”

i said, my lips tugged into a frown,

wondering why you had spoken

as if it were something profound.

-

“no,” you replied, shaking your head.

“you have blue eyes.”

as if they could be something else instead.

-

yet i realized—

with painful spite—as the familiar sting crept to the corners of my eyes,

you hadn’t meant the color at all,

and that was when the tears

started to fall.

thanks for reading,

wishing you well. <3

cali

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She was remarkable and fresh with charming specks.

Down to earth, slender and green—

She was the most beautiful girl I had ever seen.

✿
And I told her so,

Right before it all,

But she saw my shears

And started to bawl.

✿
I killed her, then,

In the heart of my garden.

One clip to her neck,

And it was fin:

Off its deck,

The head fell clean.

✿

And fragile—she was—

Like the wings of a moth.

She was perfect; she was supple.

Yet all I could think to do was scoff.

✿

She should’ve been grateful

To be so admired.

Because, after all,

Isn’t that how we humans are hardwired?

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I am a butterfly with pinned wings.

A dainty beauty, your plaything—

You admire me

With skewed heartstrings,

Hushing me

When I confess it stings.

໒꒱

And I lay there

Fluttering feebly,

Losing my flare,

Because I have long since drowned

In my despair.

໒꒱

For you,

I memorized my prayer.

Ev’ry line, ev’ry verse

Is a breath of fresh air.

໒꒱

To the gods above—

Please

Save me.

For a mercy

It was

To be free.

Wishing you all a better tomorrow. <3

Signing off for now,

Cali

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Then perhaps I did not love well enough.

It was a Friday dawn,
And I barely managed a yawn
Before the trees whispered, “Good morning.”
And I could not answer—a corpse of warning.

Because the clock kept ticking, and the people kept going,
And I stayed there—in bed—trapped in a cycle of good mourning.

Where my guts were empty—rotting inside.
A skeleton of emotion, I was little more than a hide.
Because along with you, a part of me died,
And I can’t even remember
The last time I cried.

*

A gaping hole has nestled itself
Between my ribs.
A beast, a parasite—
It’s grown tired of my fibs.

“I’m fine,” I’ll say, 
Through a fragile smile.
If only you knew,
All I could taste was bile.

For there in my ribs,
A piece of me has been missing.
It’s held fast—held strong—
For an organ I kept blacklisting.

Like it, too, knew
It must return back to where it belonged.
But who knew when that time would come
Because that organ had been so terribly wronged—

By me,
By life,
By all there is to endure.

And even if, say, it did—return?
How could anything save me
From my soul’s denial
And life’s ever-treacherous trials?

*

The truth is,
I don’t know life
Without you.

And if I could quit lying to myself,
Maybe that would be true.

But it isn’t—
I know.
Because I slept peacefully without you,
Even when you were still here for me to hold onto.

So forgive me,
Please.
And rest at ease.

Goodbye, sweet angel.
I love you ∞

Grief is a fickle thing. I’m still not sure I’m 100% “better.” I don’t know if I’ll ever be.

Words have been hard for me to write lately, but I thought I’d finally give my poetry a try again. Forgive me if this does not come off as one of my usual poems.

Thank you for reading regardless.

Much love,

Cali

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what does it truly mean to be free
if all claims to thee
blissfully ignore
those in custody?


if your life is such a bore,
while theirs is being torn,
what do you call it?


privilege or luck,

while you wipe your shoe of schmuck
and disdainfully wrinkle your nose—
oh no!—
you still have all ten toes.

what I say is what I know,
and what I know cannot be my own.


somewhere out there,
a little boy is alone.
his father is dead,
and there, on the breadth of his chest, 
his mama wept—
away her knees swept, 
and she sobbed—to be spared.

not a second in her life was “fair.”


yet on the screens you stared—
not at them, but at the likes you shared.
would you have blinked twice and cared
if it was your friends, your family—
with their lives pulled taut and snared?


i don’t imagine this bit will end up on your feed
but as you read, i hope you try to see:

without empathy for all, empathy at large, 
for the eldest, the brightest, the gentlest—them all—
there is no future for freedom.


on this day, we celebrate not a birthday in America, but a milestone:
a day where not everyone is free, and therefore no one is free.

maybe, just maybe, by the end of this night—
our willingness to fight will have grown
to mend this ever-widening, ceaseless blight
that we—Americans—still call our own.

xx
cali

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they say,

or are they rain?

will they nourish the flowers,

or keep me here, stifled—

something less of a coward?

-

i’m wilting;

don’t you see?

perhaps the flower was never what was in front of me

but myself all along:

wailing a prayer of hope

to find the antidote for the tears

that never seem to clear,

despite the faucet’s clog

and my mind’s ceaseless fog.

xx

cali

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she’s only inside her head,

disappearing in the mist,

hanging by a thread—

perhaps it was too late,

heart too crude to be saved.

in the silence, she craved

an embrace—

an end

to the ceaseless thought race

she called “fine”

and knew she’d carry

‘til the end of time.

🏃‍♀️‍➡️

Someone looked down at me recently with pity, tilting their head just-so with a faint but sympathetic smile playing across their face. Their eyebrows were knitted; their lips pulled thin. The silence between us stretched, a consideration held firmly and yet not with contempt.

I could’ve said yes, a little white lie to express my sorrow at being forgotten, but like any normal human-being, I replied truthfully—“No,” I said, laughing like their supposition was some kind of comedy, “I’m the youngest, actually.”

“The youngest!” they exclaimed. “Well I’ll be—! You must be the favorite.” Their smile was wider now, glowing. I could see in their eyes, glittering like little stars, that this knowledge came with relief—that this was, in fact, a rare occasion.

That my parents did, in fact, not forget me often.

And—

That was the truth.

I was the youngest.

I was not forgotten often.

But when I was,

It felt like a tidal wave crashing over me.

Because this—

This is what it felt like.

To be alone. To possess some covert knowledge that you were not forgotten per sé, and rather sitting in the background until someone in your family decided you were worthy again and ask:

“Hey, have you seen ______?”

And all heads would turn towards the inquiry with scrunched-up brows and collectively say, “Huh.”

Because they hadn’t seen you.

And, in some semblance, that made you free.

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My brother got mad at me today for applying to a program at our local college.

When I was struggling to figure logistics out—like paying for the course and finding the last prerequisites—he got really red in the face, and like a ticking time bomb, he blew up at me. At everything.

“Why must you always do what I do?”

“I don’t—” I instinctively replied. Though, in retrospect, he had a point.

“You do!” he spat venomously. “You always do!”

Inside, I flinched. My brain was trying to wrap his reaction around in my head, to categorize it into something that made sense. Because, at the time, I could not see why me applying for the program was such a bad idea. I just wanted to complete the training so that I could make some money in a year or so. What was so abysmal about that?

His vitriol here had reached its peak, finally taking shape into something that I knew regrettably well. Something so familiar that it made my stomach churn. Something that I kept swept under the ‘thought-rug’ for as long as possible—until it inevitably came out again.

And,

Every few months—

It did.

And,

Gee—

Did it sting.

As the youngest child, I have always had role models.

My parents. My brother. My extended family (yes, I am the youngest there, too).

There was always someone to look up to. Always someone who had done it first.

My brother, sure, had it with my parents. He knew what they did and accumulated some general advice from them.

But he didn’t have me to precede him.

I, on the other hand, have always had someone older than me—in the same generation—to show me the do’s and do-not’s of life and growing up.

I have been a copycat since the age of three.

Or rather, in my brother’s eyes I have been.

To me, it has always been inspiration.

I love my brother and all that he does.

We bicker often, but when it comes down to it, my brother is a pretty cool person—and I will not tolerate anyone’s disregards towards him but mine.

Because mine, after all, are light-hearted and sensible.

Any others are ridiculous, and whoever said them should respectfully get lost.

To my brother, if you ever find this: sorry for using you in a Substack article. I love you very much—please don’t be too mad at me :)

Because I have been a copycat, I have learned a thing or two from those older than me. I have done what I can to get ahead.

In fact, exposure to algebra in the second grade helped me to know the basics already by the sixth. That is how it’s always been for me. Regrettably so.

This also means, when I finally get to things I learned earlier, I want to do them doubly good.

Because, in my eyes, I can never make my brother proud. Nor my parents.

After all, I was the second. I will always be the second. I will repeat the same things as my brother—even if I don’t intentionally choose to do so. I will still have to take the same classes as him. I will still have to face similar challenges in life—canon events, as the media calls it.

This is why I must excel in them. After all, they have already been done. Now, I need to do them better. I have to, for what good am I ‘average’?

Selfish as it is, I am kept awake by the suffocating pressure to be perfect. To achieve the greatest possible score in everything I do.

From the outside, I might look like the poster child—the one with outstanding athletic achievements, overarching academics, and a steadfast smiling face. On the inside, I’m screaming.

I forget to take care of myself.

This last week of exams has really shown me the toll of my perfectionistic habits.

I have pushed my body to the brink. I have taken two unintentional naps this past week that lasted more than three hours. By the time I woke up, it was dark outside—evening wasted away.

I should have been studying, I immediately thought to myself both times it happened. Or, at least—exercising. Doing something better with my time—not sleeping.

Reflecting on this train of thought, I began to wonder later:

Why do I think like this?

Is there an ulterior cause rather than stress, lack of time, or worse, ego?

Turns out, yes. It’s a component of my personality—my dire need to excel. Engraved in stone from the moment I was born, being second has defined me my whole life.

Because am I really first if it took me a role model to get me here in the first place?

So,

Back to being the middle child and the cliché ‘forgotten’ trope.

The one you left in the mall and only realize until after you’re in the parking lot that you ditched them in TJ-Maxx while shopping for one of the others.

DISCLAIMER: I know this doesn’t apply to all middle children. I am referencing it for stereotypical sake, as well as to allude to my personal experience at the beginning of this article.

Sometimes I think about how I was almost the middle child.

Sometimes I wonder if that would change how I am today.

I think it could have—some. Not much, but some. Enough.

I think it would have given me room to breathe. Because if there was less attention on me, I might have found more space for myself to branch out. With less intense of a focus on all of the things I loved when I was a kid, perhaps I would be more of a well-rounded, average individual and not “exemplary” in all of the things I chose to copy my brother on.

I don’t know—it’s just a thought.

Because I think we all want the things we don’t have.

And in my mind, I think there is value to being forgotten. In fact, there is value in so many things we neglect to see worth in, and I’m starting to realize that applies to more realities than I initially thought. There’s something oddly paradoxical to that—

Perhaps we are all only looking at one page of the story.

And perhaps that’s something we all need to do better at:

Learning more about another human being before making assumptions.

Because if we’re assuming someone has ill intentions merely due to a small outburst in the middle of the day, then we are making a fundamental attribution error.

And since I love examples: Gatsby isn’t just staring out at a green light. It’s probably his entire life story wrapped into one sentence. Just ask an English professor.

So—

A sentence can be a story, but there can also be more to a story than a sentence.

Thank you, and until next time,

Cali

C’est la vie,
But does it have to be?
Must I accept something
That isn’t me?
Must I follow a path
Where I shall carry eternal wrath
And never ever have the last laugh?

Must I always confess
To a world that could care less?

Or to my confidant, my writer’s font,
A scribbled mess—
Ahem, I digress.

For pressed in the pages of my diary,
Lies a drab, finite eternity.
There, scrawled in midnight ink,
Are the days I thought I’d go extinct,
And yet,
Here I am—
Alive.

Monotone,
Repeating—
A cycle of simplicity
That’s

Privy
To my fading light,
And my candle’s soft, ever-dwindling life.

I’m forgived,
Somehow,
For something I didn’t do,
For something that wasn’t true.
For something my mind couldn’t skew.

Because the reality wasn’t mine,
It was written on a separate timeline.
I saw it,
Took the blitz—
And there I was:
Banished.

And my soul, aching and lost—
Vanished

Through my hands;
It drifted like sand.
My bones, skeletal and thin,
Became a warning.
After all—“What happened?”

To the girl on fire—
Who laughed, inspired.
To the girl at sea,
Diving nose-first, captivated
By what the world could be.
So candid, so alive—
And yet,
She couldn’t thrive.

After all,
A flower only blooms once—
It’s childhood’s wicked stunt.

She became a blur,
Conquered—
A nobody.

And that is how they knew they won—
The day she stopped receiving sun.

So if “That’s life,”
My stem has snapped.
‘Cause why such a strife
For a curse that has me mapped?

Maybe,
One day, I’ll wake up
And realize
There’s more ahead than just gray skies 
And all I really needed was to open my eyes
And see the world beyond their lies.
To live—
That was the final prize.
We tried,
Instead—sank in our own demise.

Wanderers, we are.
Barefoot—we don’t go far.
We learn along the way
And pray for renewal each passing day.

Because not all those who wander are lost,
But all those who are lost will wander.
Therefore it must be asked:
Is losing yourself worth the cost
To tiptoe a line that will never be crossed?

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“Out of sight, out of mind.”

Are we really so blind,

Without truly understanding

The walls at which we’re confined?

If things go South,

And I open my mouth,

What promises can you give

That I am safe to live

Free—

As me?

Oh, how I hope

To be

Free from harm's way.

But who I am to pray

For a new day

When I enjoy life’s gifts

At the same time

I acknowledge its rifts?

For if I’m so pious,

So wicked, so biased,

Why do we look the same?

After all,

Don’t we all fall under the same name:

Human—?

It’s no claim to fame

And rather a title we carry with shame

Where we hope someone else will take the blame

In this cruel life we pretend is a game.

Casualties, numbers, lives lost—

War, then feasibly victory—

But at what cost?

Humanity.

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“I’m tired,” I said.

And you looked at me like I bled.

Turns out—

I did.



My head dropped to my feet

Where a trail of truth had begun.

On the face of the concrete,

A little bird sung.

“Wake up,” it cried,

And despite it, I sighed.

“I’m tired,” I whispered back;

“I’m so tired.”

And the world faded to black.


~

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Hi.

Cali here :)

This is an archived poem from a while ago.

In it, I depict a person who is obviously drained. The evocation of “truth” both literally means the blood previously illustrated and figuratively means the sincerity of their words—they’ve stopped pretending, they’re tired, and they’ve simply pushed too far.

The bird is the whisper; the one that urges them to keep going. It’s encouragement, so to speak. It’s support from their peers or, even more broadly, the external world. However, the person does not have the energy to go on, and thus these efforts are rendered futile.

This poem is based off of my experience when I burn myself out. Ironically I’ve done this enough times to know this gut-deep feeling of “I’m tired” isn’t something you can say out loud. It’s often something heavier and quieter, something that lingers—even when you don’t want it to.

If you’re ever experiencing this, I promise you’re not alone. I’ve been there, done that. I still do it, and I hope you understand that, even in your lowest of lows, there is still a ledge to climb out, and you will find it—given time. I know this is easier said than done, but I promise—it gets better. Hold on.

As a wise friend () said, “There is a crack in everything; that is how the light gets in.”

Maybe the light is coming sooner than you think.

All the best. <3

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NOTE. I’ve seen two differing perspectives lately on poem writing. One says you should never explain your poems; the other says you should because then those who don’t often read poems can understand your perspective better. Because of this, I just wanted to note—you can interpret my poems however you want to. I don’t mind if you see it in a different way. In fact, if you do, I’d love to hear about it! Please, comment. I’d love to discuss it. This doesn’t mean I will stop writing my little blurbs though because that is something that makes a piece a little more personal to me. Thank you.

I want to hold your hand,
And yet I’m scared I’ll turn to sand—
Stony and stiff, petrified inland,
Deserted, lost, unable to stand.

And yet still,
I want to be held in your arms,
To feel safe, shielded—free from harm.

It’s funny, isn’t it?
How my heart and brain can’t get along,
And when one tries; the other says, “Wrong!” 

It’s the same record, the same song—
And it plays—perpetually—on and on:

Oh, I want to let you in,
And yet I’m scared when you kiss my skin.
The fear is bone-deep, weathered in—
I can’t help that it feels like sin.

For when we’re close,
My head goes underwater—
First a muted buzz, then a rooted pressure;
It blooms, it spreads,
It becomes a pulse I cannot prevent,
And I wish I knew precisely what it meant.

Because all I know
Is how much I want you to look at me—
To see me for me.
And yet I’m scared you’ll realize—
I’m not who you thought I’d be.
And in that same pair of eyes,
I’m no better than another ‘she.’

I’m scared
To have someone who cared.
For who knows
How it would have fared?
For if I’d dared,
Been braver, not snared—

Would we have last
And been more than just ‘the past?’

I’m sorry
Forever seemed so vast.
If only my gut
Hadn’t been so steadfast.

I was scared,
And in that fear,
I have erred.

Perhaps someday 
We’ll both find
Love that is shared.

Because alas,
The past is the past,
And sometimes it’s better to let things go
Than to pursue things we were never meant to know.

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Let me repeat that, but in a situation you might understand better:

The average man will spend his entire life fearing the communists, only to be eaten by the capitalists.

In this scenario, it’s a call back to the Red Scare, the Cold War. Even today, the word ‘communist’ in America is seen as bad, even when most people don’t actually know what it means or how a communist government functions. That means there’s an unreasonable amount of hysteria over a concept that we were only taught to fear—and with minimal understanding, at that—which leaves a gap in the rational mind, allowing another ‘danger’ to sink its teeth in—which, in this example, is the capitalist (though it could be anything; I’m merely referencing the primary economy of America as a comparison to the fear of communism).

PLEASE NOTE: I am NOT saying communism is a good thing by comparing it to capitalism. That is NOT the point of the above paragraph. All forms of governments have their flaws, and I believe communism and capitalism are one in the same in terms of late-stage corruption (with different effects due to varied function, of course).

-

You see:

If we so easily fear something just because we don’t know/understand it, then we are no better than pigs. Raised for slaughter, we won’t see our end is near until it’s placed right in our faces, curated as nicely as a freshly steamed platter, and blinding us from any other fate but the one we sealed for ourselves.

We become our own self-detriment.

So, what is it with being afraid of “the unknown”?

After all, Friedrich Nietzsche wrote,

“Birds born in cages believe flying is an illness.”

If we are all, hypothetically, birds, then what version of flying is our own? What have we forgotten is ours due to the fear of being something we could never fathom?

How many opportunities have we missed?

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Most prejudice and bias forms under the pressures of fear.

When we don’t see something as normal, our brains are wired to think of it as weird—or worse—dangerous. This is an expected reaction, of course—psychologically in check with most theories. But what if we became aware of it?

Even acknowledgement is better than nothing. Unconscious bias is conditioned; our job is to recognize that and try to break the bonds that formed them. This won’t be easy. In fact, you might not even be able to. However, as long as you try, that’s a start, and baby steps in one direction are better than nothing.

Except…

There’s more. This isn’t just about bias and prejudice, though this is a critical historical example (eg: colonizers’ views of native populations).

Other concerns include:

• Limitations

• Constructs

• Anxiety

• Misinformation

• “Being in the dark”

• Befuddlement

  And,

  The unintentional loss of freedom.

The concept of “Freedom” vs. “Safety”. So, what’s the big deal?

When I asked you (my fellow Substackers), about whether you’d prefer “safety” or “freedom,” you were all keen to think, “Why not both?”

And yes, I ask you,

Why not both?

Because it should be one in the same. However, as I was telling (great person by the way, do consider subscribing!),

It’s a common saying that the average man would prefer safety as compared to his own freedom. While you may be shaking your head at me while reading this, musing to yourself—“Well, I must not be ‘average’ then, ‘cause I’d never do that!”—I’m going to ask you to think again. Because

Freedom is easy to think about. It is not easy to accomplish.

It’s easy to think about what you’d like to embody, what you’d like to be. But most of us? We’d prefer to reside in our own little “bubbles.” After all, we can’t sacrifice our mental health, now can we?

[NOTE: I am using this example because I sometimes refrain from reading politics in order to protect my mental health. I am not saying that this is always a bad thing, but there must be a finely struck balance. There are many other “reasons” as to not intervene with something… the simplest being “it does not affect me.”]

Without balance, it’s all excuses. All extra noise. How often do you procrastinate something before finally getting it done, or perhaps not getting something done at all because you’ve procrastinated it? [eg: Oh—you mean that? I’ll get that done later. No biggie!]

Spoiler Alert: it never gets done. Or at least, not in the timely manner it should’ve been.

There is a reason why the Civil Rights Movement is still being fought today. There is a reason why the Feminist Movement is still around today. There is a reason that advocacy such as these exists. There is a reason that it has to exist. Without it, the greediest would be in power… and even today, most of them still are.

Advocacy matters.

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Safety is more than just “not doing something because it’s more comfortable to you.”

It’s also being afraid of what others might think of you.

Quoted by Aristotle:

There is only one way to avoid criticism: do nothing, say nothing, and be nothing.

I’ll ask you: Is that the life you wish to live?

If so, that’s okay. I understand that it’s peaceful, and that it’s for some people. But what about all those dreams of living a fruitful life, a meaningful one? Will you really just throw that all away, just because you’re scared of someone’s whiny voice?

Remember,

You can also commit injustice by saying nothing.

You must choose where your moral boundaries lie. If you see injustice, but you think it’s okay because it isn’t affecting you, fine then. Be okay with it.

Just know that karma will probably come around and bite you in the butt.

But even if it does, I still want to help you.

I’ve seen my community in crisis. I’ve seen what we’ve done in response to blatant and discriminatory attacks on our neighbors. Most of all, I’ve seen some beautiful humanity come out of sheer horror, and that is what I strive to live by:

To be the one flower growing out of the scarred asphalt. To be the tiny candle flicker where gusts of wind threaten to snuff it out. To be hope, pure and unguarded, there just in case even the coldest of hearts may need it.

For without light, there will forever be darkness.

[NOTE: I’m sure that this is an ancient philosopher’s words, but I came up with it on my own. If you ever quote it, definitely say it’s Cali and not Plato. Thanks!]

So be the light, however small it is. If we all aim towards one collective goal—such as simple acts of kindness—then we are closer to shifting as a society, albeit through little steps.

All I ask is you try.

My final point is about goldfish.

Call me crazy, sure, but have you ever looked at those poor fishies swimming solo around their tiny bowls (at least three tank sizes too small for them)?

They don’t even know they’re trapped. They can’t see the walls of their cage, as I touched on a bit before with the “birds being afraid of flying.” They probably don’t even know what’s wrong with them by the time the “shortness of breath” reaches them. And shortly after, they die.

This is us, metaphorically speaking.

Can the goldfish see the bowl? Can it see the water for that matter?

This is the concept of freedom. It is not so easily defined when one does not know what freedom is. Freedom is a dopamine hit. It’s a word that brings pleasure without truly knowing why.

Because if you’ve never had said ‘freedom’ in the first place, the idea is unfathomable. And once it’s fathomed, it’s radical. So it goes.

Women voting, while normal in America now, was seen as radical a century ago. One hundred years ago, women were still fighting to keep their right to vote after they attained it in 1919—all because it was ‘controversial.’

Because rights in of themselves are controversial.

Mine. Yours. Anyone and everyone’s… except for the people in power.

Freedom is, and always will be, controversial. Radical. Unfathomable.

Your job is to stop being the blind goldfish. Wake up. See your walls, and decide if you accept them. Then, depending on where you’re at then, look at your loved ones’ walls, your friends’ walls. Do you accept those, too?

It is natural to gravitate towards a “flock” rather than stand out independently, and it’s okay if you do so.

But just once, I ask you:

Choose the chance to breathe over a safety net.

I promise it will pay off in the long run—for you, for others, and most importantly, for humanity.

All the best,

Cali

why do we put bandaids on things and expect them to heal?
why do we cover up pain and pretend the effects are real?
and why do we owe it to a bandage
when the clock is the one that strikes the bridge?

is it because
we pick at the scab,
knowing well it is bad?

is it because 
we press our finger to the wound,
leaving our nerves to be strewn?

or is it because
we know
how all of this goes?

because it’s happened before,
and we’re too scared to confess that
we want there to be more.

for to bleed—
it shows we’re freed
from this ceaseless need
and anxious greed.

p erf e ct io n,
at what cost?

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Hi,

Let me keep this concise.

Bandaids, in this poem, are a metaphor for society’s desire to stifle our imperfections. It represents how society places us in rigid constructs and makes us believe that is who we are/must be. So, to fix our insecurity of not quite fitting the “box”, we cover up the “bad”, the “ugly”, and we create a nearly identical person to everyone else.

Because without any perceived flaws, there is no person—just a shape that vaguely resembles a person. My advice? Rip that Bandaid off—remember your flaw is not a “wound” for you to fix—and pick at the scab. Show who you are underneath. (Metaphorically, of course. Be kind to yourself!)

Anyways, I hope you all are doing well. Remember that you are perfect just the way you are. Nature made you this way for a reason. Find that. Internalize it.

Oh, and write down or think about one thing you are grateful for today. Trust me—gratitude for the simplest things in life makes a noticeable difference. <3

Signing off for now—

With much love,

Cali

I’ve always been a little different,
It’s stealthily scrawled in fine print.
Like a file containing the “Terms and conditions”,
I never wanted any questions.

Because “lucky for me,”
It’s nothing you can see on a glance,
But when you do, it’s by chance.

Because, by then, 
I know you.
I trust you.
You are the person I can call “home,”
The person I can stand beside 
When I feel utterly alone.

"This prose will be messy—
It’s covering something heavy.
I wish I could polish it, make it nice,
But I’m already walking on thin ice.
—
It trembles under my feet,
And beneath it,
I can feel the heat—
It’s rising, it’s angry,
And it’s undeniably me."

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NOTE: I’m writing this while feeling very hurt. Because sometimes, I feel like I’m standing on an island, floating to nowhere, trapped in my own little “bubble” and desperately trying to keep it that way. And there are clouds overhead—people who will claim to want to help me, save me, but they can’t, and they won’t, for this journey is my own.

So, because of this,

I wanted to capture what it feels like to be “different” in my eyes, and that’s not to say I am. I think everyone feels this way sometimes. It’s all part of the “human” deal.

Which is why I wanted to illustrate it in words—through my poem, my prose—because often when I bring something alive through writing, it literally becomes a painted picture in my mind, something that tells a story all on its own.

I’m sure many of you can relate to this feeling of “isolation”, because, in the end, it truly is all of our first cracks at life (and also our only).

— That being said, I kind of wish there was a “free trial” button. Maybe then, I’d get the memo.

Hi,

I am a girl with ADHD,

who—my entire life—has always tried to fit in. My brain moves too fast for my mouth, so sometimes I don’t say anything at all. My brain also moves too fast for a conversation, flitting from topic to topic, that sometimes I can come across as rude when I accidentally interrupt someone else, because my brain tunes their voice out (and even if I reply with a “Yeah” or an “Okay,” often I still don’t know what they’ve said). Sometimes I don’t even know that I’ve replied to them at all.

And then, I’m a fireball (niche Usher reference, I know).

I have a lot of energy, though I grew up being told I was “too much.” Older now, I’m quieter with those I don’t know, and bubbly with those I do. I’m two different people, and it feels like being a “fraud”. I have one facade for the public and one for the private. This might sound familiar from my poem “Would you love me still?” Though, truthfully, while it might connect, that poem is about something completely different.

But all of this, short and sweet:

None of us know who we are or what we want to be, and that’s okay.

That being said,

This is pure emotion knocked over like dark, wet ink across an expensive wooden table.

It’s messy, muddled, and all over the place, and also somewhere it’s not meant to be. Like me.

You have been warned.

But I hope you continue reading.

Thank you,

Cali

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“Gifted,” they labeled me,
At a young age, maybe eight-to-be.
They put me in a box with a lock and key,
Except they neglected it and placed a fee.

And then, oh, lucky me,
I was diagnosed with ADHD.

And all I ever wanted was to be free—
Free of judgement—
Of eyes, of squints.

And so I cried, “This is ridiculous!”
And yet I was not permitted to ask, “Why?” for it was 'frivolous'.
It just was—like show biz—
All a test, a quiz:

It felt like an advert:
Could you be gifted at life?
A prodigy? A whiz?

I knew the answer; it was crystal clear:
“No.” It came with no fear.
Because I was already cast out of the sphere,
Into the unknown—struck by a spear.

Of self-hatred, denial—
I put myself on my own trial,
Cast myself out, deemed myself fit for exile.

See,
I knew how to act;
It was drilled into me like fact.
“Sit still, look pretty,
And don’t forget to smile—for me.”
That was ingrained deep—
At least a mile—could be.

And each day, because of it,
I was drowning in my thoughts,
Suffocating, fading—and forever boxed.
Outside, I was alive, awake, with a smile on my face,
But inside? I was lost in this frilly thing we called space.

Floating in air,
Without a care,
It was funny how I was never scared.

I’d observed too much
And lost my touch
With reality and time—
I was sitting in my own thoughtcrime.

And at any cost, I could not win,
For I’d never been comfortable in my own skin.

And
Everywhere, there were eyes, there were ears—
It was only a matter of time before someone hears.
They all knew I was a fraud, a cheat—
So there I waited, embracing the heat.

Because somewhere inside, my heart still beat.
Often it forgot what my mind still needs:
Security, a buffer, a place to rest.
Except no—it handed me yet another test:

“Try,” it whispered, hammering the mirage in—
A pretty scene, a colorful vision,
A place I'd forever question.
It was an ethereal fever dream
All trapped inside a sweltering scream.
~

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~
I blinked, and now I’m here.
Present, awake, sitting in memory’s shear,
With the crop, the produce—
It’s all a bit abstruse.

A time jump,
With a sudden bump—
Now my train [of thought] is thrown ajar.
Buzzing, sputtering, I guess I’ve lost another car.

But it isn’t memory,
Broken or faulty—
You see,
It’s just me.

Because
My mind’s a reel,
It can’t stop for your spiel.

I’ll try again,
Every day, except I don’t know when.

Maybe eventually, I’ll get it,
And I won’t feel like such a “misfit”.

But alas, “different” has never been the problem;
It was always blamed by those who condemned,
But we—I guarantee—are louder than them.

So what if 
We opened our eyes
And exposed their wicked lies? 
And realized—

That
Freedom has always been ours,
And expression is a need, not something to be placed behind bars.
For without it, our hearts would forever bleed,
And the world would be decreed,
An ode for all who exploited us—
In the name of greed.

I was thirteen,
Young and keen,
When I saw something I didn't mean.

Years later, it still haunts me,
But in the moment,
I never wanted to make a scene.

Walking through the park 
While it was getting dark,
I made my choice—made an arc—
I didn't know it'd become the landmark.

TW: mentions of assault.

-

This is a memory I have derived into a poem. It haunts my dreams to this day.

Years later, almost all my nightmares are of something unseen chasing me. I’m gasping for air, running out of breath, unable to see what will come next. My heart pounds. My hands are slick. There’s nothing to do but go with it.

The end is the same, every time, escalating shamelessly:

I have to stop, one way or another. I’m scared. I know I need someone—anyone—for I cannot save myself. I’ve tried. I feel helpless, useless, and most of all, defenseless.

Is this what all of us feel like, the moment before it happens?

I always—always—wake up just before the inevitable takes me.

To this day, I consider myself lucky. I narrowly escaped.

Other women aren’t so fortunate.

That is why I’m bringing this tale to life.

Yours truly,

Cali

A warm autumn day,
There's not much to say.
One headphone in, listening to songs,
Anytime now—it couldn't be long.

I rounded the corner,
And there it was—my armor,
My shield, the lavender bush,
All for the sake of this ambush.

I glanced at the playground
And instinctively frowned:
Two boys, older than I, were watching me 
With expressions too eerily like glee.

They held intensity—
A hunger, a greed.
At once, I wanted to flee—
Because something about this
Felt too much like "need".

Quickly, bashfully, I looked away,
Feeling like little more than prey.
My heart stumbled—a fault, a delay.
I hastily moved, carrying on my way.

After all, they could just be high.
This wasn't uncommon; it could apply.

But that wasn't true;
I wish I knew.
For once in my life,
My gut wasn't skewed.

The paths diverged.
My senses surged.
A choice to be made,
The rest Fate weighed.

So, I turned sharp—
Away from the park.
It was all I cared about
With common sense failing, caving to doubt.

Except, right then, my gut whispered a shout—
"You know how easily this could go South."

And it did.
God forbid.

The turn I took
Was hidden—a nook.
No people in sight.
No soul to plight.
The danger loomed,
And I took flight.

Behind me, the boys had followed.
Both of them—my stomach hollowed.
They laughed, they jeered,
Their words, they seared
A hole too deep,
A place my mind—to this day—cannot breach.

So, the chase began.
First I walked, then I ran.
I'd tried to hope the best intents,
But quickly, it became clear—
They had other regiments.

It seemed too far
To get to the road,
To elude, to dodge,
To vanish unscathed.

So, I ran,
And it wasn't even a man.
It was two boys, unfledged,
Chasing me to the edge.

Their footsteps drew close,
And I swear, I tried—to put everything in,
But it's scrawled in oath:
A girl was never meant to win.
Because that would've been
Man's greatest sin.

Just when a hand grazed my shoulder,
That's when it was all done and over.
My eyes blinked,
And the presence—
Just like that—
Went extinct.

All because
An old man had walked by.
He was a stout bloke, one with kind eyes,
Walking his dog with a leather tie.
If you had told me that this was the end,
I would've thought you had lied.

For when that hand touched me,
It told its own story—
One I shall never know,
And one I pray will never come home.

And hauntingly enough, I know—
I will never be alone.

In this moment, I was lucky.

If that man hadn’t come by, I don’t know what would’ve happened.

I don’t want to know.

The boys turned around. They went the other way. It took me a minute for life to return to me. After that, I fled the scene.

This is the only reason I believe miracles exist. The coincidence is uncanny, and even scarier, too.

This is also why feminism matters.

I am sick and tired of this “backwards” movement cropping up around the world—the ones claiming feminism “puts men down” and that it’s not necessarily because “women are equal already”.

Oh, how I’d love that, but are we? Are we, really?

There is a reason why we choose the bear, and God, I wish I didn’t have to care.

The scar this has left me whenever I leave the home on my own is something I don’t want to delve into, but I’m sure you can imagine on your own.

And to men, until the end of time, they will always have their same reply:

“Not all men.” But enough.

Enough that we don’t feel safe. Enough that a thirteen-year-old has to run for her life.

Some men. Enough men.

Enough that we have to care.

Thank you.

Stay safe.

Goodbye.

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