gemma-flora-ortwerth

[gemma-flora-ortwerth]

The Barkeep Who Knows When to Listen

by Gemma Ortwerth

Closing time. The neon sputters red, buzzing like a fly in an empty room. You’re wiping glasses again, slow circles that remind me of old rituals, except you don’t promise salvation. You don’t ask me to kneel.

I tell you how they called him Father, but all I learned was how fathers can bruise. How love turned into rules, rules into fear, fear into a voice that hissed in my ear: “Give up. Stop fighting. You are nothing.”

And I believed it. Every sermon a shot. Every hymn another round, knocking me back until I couldn’t tell the difference between worship and addiction.

The barkeep sets a stool on the counter. Doesn't say a word.

I talk about pews lined with hollow eyes, everyone staring forward, waiting for the cue. The choir sang obedience. The priest raised his hand like a judge. And I swallowed it, bread and wine, pretending it could wash me clean.

But all it ever washed me in was shame. The kind that sticks to your skin, the kind that makes you want to hide. I thought it was holy. It was just control. A trick dressed up as love and safety.

So why should I fear a god who only grows taller by breaking me down? Why should I beg for love from someone who never gave it?

The barkeep leans against the bar, arms crossed. “Better off without him.”

The neon flickers. The whiskey burns. But at least whiskey doesn’t lie. At least it doesn’t tell me it loves me while tightening the chains.

I tell the barkeep how it hasn’t changed. How they’re still blessing bombs, still damning kids like me. They dress hate in robes, call it mercy. They smile while spitting in my face.

And the barkeep doesn’t argue. Doesn’t hand me another story about faith, or mystery, or love I can’t see.

The barkeep just puts the last glass down, switches off the light, and tells me to go home.

And I do. Not saved. Not damned. Just free from the chains of a god built on bruises.

[gemma-flora-ortwerth]

Dream of Escape

By Gemma Ortwerth

The dream begins in Baltimore, late summer pressing against the skin. Neon flickers across puddles. Rowhouses line the blocks like ribs. The harbor smells of salt and defiance. Across the water, the Domino Sugars sign glows red, steady as a heartbeat. I stand at the edge of it all, waiting, when the sound arrives. Not a siren. Not a voice. An engine—low, impatient, alive.

A white Jeep rolls out of the dark. The doors are gone, the frame wide open to the night. Headlights sweep the curb, climb the brick, and blind the waiting shadows. Tires scrape against asphalt. The grille shines like a grin that has already made up its mind. The Jeep halts in front of me, bass trembling the air.

Adrian leans across the wheel. Their red leather jacket catches the glow. Aviators reflect a city I want to leave behind. Wind musses their hair. Their mouth curves into a smile that feels less like bravado than promise.

“Get in,” they say, steady and calm. “I’m busting you out of this wack ass country.”

My chest opens. Not breaking, but unsealing. I grab the warm frame and climb in. The seat vinyl holds the day’s heat. The belt rasps against my hand. The Jeep smells of gasoline, dust, and something citrus-clean. There is no door to close. Only air. Only motion.

Adrian flicks the stereo on. The Jeep fills with the opening strum of The End. by My Chemical Romance. A brittle guitar note cuts through the night, fragile as a held breath. Gerard Way’s voice follows, low and mocking: “Now come one, come all to this tragic affair…” The words settle over us like an invitation and a warning, half-lullaby, half-demand.

The drums crash in. Guitars ignite. The Jeep shudders under the weight of it. His voice rises sharper, bitter and alive: “Just paint it black and take it back, let’s shout it loud and clear…” The blunt smoke drifts into the night as if carrying the lyric with it, daring the world to hear us, daring us to keep driving.

And then the plea cracks open — raw, undeniable. “Save me!” It tears through the speakers like a prayer set on fire. The words fuse with the hum of the road, with Adrian’s grip on the wheel, with the barricades waiting in the distance. It is not background music. It is prophecy. A funeral march, a battle cry, and a vow to refuse silence.

We shoot past the Harbor. Ferris wheel lights spin dizzy colors across black water. The Domino sign glows behind us, flashing one last red pulse like a benediction. America falls into the rearview: fences too high, eyes too hostile, laws meant to erase me. But the wind is sharp against my face, Adrian’s hand steady on the wheel, and every mile feels like defiance turned holy.

We laugh until our voices rasp. We cry without explanation. Sometimes I sing off-key, all the while their hand tapping the wheel, glancing over with longing, love, and excitement for a new beginning. Sometimes I tilt my head back and memorize the sky. Sometimes silence folds around us, heavy but forgiving and kind.

Hours pass until we arrive at the checkpoint — floodlights harsh and merciless, soldiers gripping rifles. Barricades cross the road, solid as law. Adrian’s jaw sets. They don’t slow.

The Jeep leaps forward. Shouts crack the air. Guards scatter, swallowed in the headlights. Wood splinters. Metal shrieks. Time stretches, dream-thin and strange, every second both endless and fleeting. Then —time resumes its undying pace. We are through.

On the other side, Canada waits like a breath held too long finally exhaled. The night spreads wide. Stars scatter across a silver wash of cloud. The air is crisp, tinged with pine and the sweetness of late summer. Adrian’s hand finds mine, warm and steady. Words aren’t needed. The road hums beneath us, and for once the world doesn’t demand proof of our belonging or challenge our right to exist.

We drive until a hotel glows against the dark. Its windows spill soft light. The room smells faintly of detergent and wood polish. The bed is wide, blankets heavy. Adrian kicks off their boots, smiles with weary triumph, and collapses beside me. Tomorrow, there will be a center for asylum seekers. Tomorrow, maybe, paperwork and waiting rooms. Tonight, though, it is enough to lie still, to breathe, to believe we have made it.

And then I wake.

The ceiling above me is my own. The walls, unchanged. The barricades, still unbroken. Yet the dream lingers — warm as Adrian’s hand, sharp as the music, stubborn as the ride. A vision of freedom, messy and beautiful, that I carry with me.

Someday, maybe, this country will choose care over cruelty. Until then, escape remains in my marrow: a doorless white Jeep tearing through the night, The End. shaking the air, the harbor smelling of salt and defiance, and Adrian’s voice, steady as ever — Get in.

[gemma-flora-ortwerth]

I was eleven or twelve when My Chemical Romance first became part of my life. Their music held me together in ways I could not name, the lifeline of a teenager who felt both invisible and too exposed. In ninth grade I was invited to see them, but when I told my parents the answer was no. I carried that disappointment like a wound for years.

On August 9, 2025, that wound became something else. Adrian, my partner of two years, brought me to MetLife Stadium in New Jersey, second row from the B stage. What unfolded was not just a concert. It was fire and theater, a rock opera with the weight of protest and the intimacy of confession. The stage burned with pyrotechnics and the dark satire of Draag. The Black Parade roared to life in every note and every body in the crowd.

There was a moment before the B stage when a lone cellist played, and I had to sit down. My body was unsure if it could carry me any further. When the band finally appeared in front of me, I pulled myself up, bracing against the chair, holding on with my arms as long as I could. Gerard smiled at me. For a breath I swore he winked. Maybe it was exhaustion, maybe hope, but in that instant I felt seen. Ray Toro’s grin and guitar were another spark, radiant and steady.

We left before the encore because I had to. The parking lot swallowed us in a maze of cars, exhaustion heavy on me. But Adrian was there, and with them I was safe. We got back to the poorly named motel aching, and yet I was a little more complete.

Adrian, you are the reason I was there. You are the spark that keeps me believing in myself the way MCR once helped my teenage self hold on through the hardest nights. That show lives inside me now, not as spectacle alone, but as fire that refuses to fade.

[gemma-flora-ortwerth]

I was eleven or twelve when My Chemical Romance first became part of my life. Their music held me together in ways I could not name, the lifeline of a teenager who felt both invisible and too exposed. In ninth grade I was invited to see them, but when I told my parents the answer was no. I carried that disappointment like a wound for years.

On August 9, 2025, that wound became something else. Adrian, my partner of two years, brought me to MetLife Stadium in New Jersey, second row from the B stage. What unfolded was not just a concert. It was fire and theater, a rock opera with the weight of protest and the intimacy of confession. The stage burned with pyrotechnics and the dark satire of Draag. The Black Parade roared to life in every note and every body in the crowd.

There was a moment before the B stage when a lone cellist played, and I had to sit down. My body was unsure if it could carry me any further. When the band finally appeared in front of me, I pulled myself up, bracing against the chair, holding on with my arms as long as I could. Gerard smiled at me. For a breath I swore he winked. Maybe it was exhaustion, maybe hope, but in that instant I felt seen. Ray Toro’s grin and guitar were another spark, radiant and steady.

We left before the encore because I had to. The parking lot swallowed us in a maze of cars, exhaustion heavy on me. But Adrian was there, and with them I was safe. We got back to the poorly named motel aching, and yet I was a little more complete.

Adrian, you are the reason I was there. You are the spark that keeps me believing in myself the way MCR once helped my teenage self hold on through the hardest nights. That show lives inside me now, not as spectacle alone, but as fire that refuses to fade.

[gemma-flora-ortwerth]

Dream of Escape

By Gemma Ortwerth

The dream begins in Baltimore, late summer pressing against the skin. Neon flickers across puddles. Rowhouses line the blocks like ribs. The harbor smells of salt and defiance. Across the water, the Domino Sugars sign glows red, steady as a heartbeat. I stand at the edge of it all, waiting, when the sound arrives. Not a siren. Not a voice. An engine—low, impatient, alive.

A white Jeep rolls out of the dark. The doors are gone, the frame wide open to the night. Headlights sweep the curb, climb the brick, and blind the waiting shadows. Tires scrape against asphalt. The grille shines like a grin that has already made up its mind. The Jeep halts in front of me, bass trembling the air.

Adrian leans across the wheel. Their red leather jacket catches the glow. Aviators reflect a city I want to leave behind. Wind musses their hair. Their mouth curves into a smile that feels less like bravado than promise.

“Get in,” they say, steady and calm. “I’m busting you out of this wack ass country.”

My chest opens. Not breaking, but unsealing. I grab the warm frame and climb in. The seat vinyl holds the day’s heat. The belt rasps against my hand. The Jeep smells of gasoline, dust, and something citrus-clean. There is no door to close. Only air. Only motion.

Adrian flicks the stereo on. The Jeep fills with the opening strum of The End. by My Chemical Romance. A brittle guitar note cuts through the night, fragile as a held breath. Gerard Way’s voice follows, low and mocking: “Now come one, come all to this tragic affair…” The words settle over us like an invitation and a warning, half-lullaby, half-demand.

The drums crash in. Guitars ignite. The Jeep shudders under the weight of it. His voice rises sharper, bitter and alive: “Just paint it black and take it back, let’s shout it loud and clear…” The blunt smoke drifts into the night as if carrying the lyric with it, daring the world to hear us, daring us to keep driving.

And then the plea cracks open — raw, undeniable. “Save me!” It tears through the speakers like a prayer set on fire. The words fuse with the hum of the road, with Adrian’s grip on the wheel, with the barricades waiting in the distance. It is not background music. It is prophecy. A funeral march, a battle cry, and a vow to refuse silence.

We shoot past the Harbor. Ferris wheel lights spin dizzy colors across black water. The Domino sign glows behind us, flashing one last red pulse like a benediction. America falls into the rearview: fences too high, eyes too hostile, laws meant to erase me. But the wind is sharp against my face, Adrian’s hand steady on the wheel, and every mile feels like defiance turned holy.

We laugh until our voices rasp. We cry without explanation. Sometimes I sing off-key, all the while their hand tapping the wheel, glancing over with longing, love, and excitement for a new beginning. Sometimes I tilt my head back and memorize the sky. Sometimes silence folds around us, heavy but forgiving and kind.

Hours pass until we arrive at the checkpoint — floodlights harsh and merciless, soldiers gripping rifles. Barricades cross the road, solid as law. Adrian’s jaw sets. They don’t slow.

The Jeep leaps forward. Shouts crack the air. Guards scatter, swallowed in the headlights. Wood splinters. Metal shrieks. Time stretches, dream-thin and strange, every second both endless and fleeting. Then —time resumes its undying pace. We are through.

On the other side, Canada waits like a breath held too long finally exhaled. The night spreads wide. Stars scatter across a silver wash of cloud. The air is crisp, tinged with pine and the sweetness of late summer. Adrian’s hand finds mine, warm and steady. Words aren’t needed. The road hums beneath us, and for once the world doesn’t demand proof of our belonging or challenge our right to exist.

We drive until a hotel glows against the dark. Its windows spill soft light. The room smells faintly of detergent and wood polish. The bed is wide, blankets heavy. Adrian kicks off their boots, smiles with weary triumph, and collapses beside me. Tomorrow, there will be a center for asylum seekers. Tomorrow, maybe, paperwork and waiting rooms. Tonight, though, it is enough to lie still, to breathe, to believe we have made it.

And then I wake.

The ceiling above me is my own. The walls, unchanged. The barricades, still unbroken. Yet the dream lingers — warm as Adrian’s hand, sharp as the music, stubborn as the ride. A vision of freedom, messy and beautiful, that I carry with me.

Someday, maybe, this country will choose care over cruelty. Until then, escape remains in my marrow: a doorless white Jeep tearing through the night, The End. shaking the air, the harbor smelling of salt and defiance, and Adrian’s voice, steady as ever — Get in.

[gemma-flora-ortwerth]

Occupation in the Capital: Trump’s National Guard Gamble and the Communities Left in Its Wake

By Gemma Ortwerth

A City Under Federal Control

On Aug. 12, 2025, President Donald Trump invoked his authority under the D.C. Home Rule Act to take control of the District’s National Guard. Citing a “crime emergency,” he deployed troops into the streets, bypassing local leadership and suspending elements of self-governance for more than 700,000 residents who have no voting representation in Congress.

The move was not isolated. Earlier this summer, the Trump administration intervened in Los Angeles under the same justification. In both cases, the narrative followed a pattern: declare an exaggerated crisis, use it to sideline local authorities, and frame the action as protection.

Crime data in D.C. shows no unprecedented surge. While some categories have risen slightly, others have declined. Fact checks from CNN, BBC, and Al Jazeera confirm that Trump’s portrayal is misleading. The reality on the ground is far from the war zone described in his speeches.

Federal Power Without Consent

The D.C. Home Rule Act gives residents limited self-government, but Section 740 allows the president to assume control of the Guard in certain emergencies. This means D.C.’s autonomy can disappear with a single order from the White House.

Past examples show the danger of this clause. From the civil rights crackdowns of the 1960s to the 2020 Lafayette Square incident, federal control of local forces has often been used against communities calling for change. In D.C., a majority-Black city, the stakes are even higher.

Trump’s federalization order was more than a legal step. It was a political statement aimed at a city that has consistently rejected him at the ballot box. It sent a message that local governance can be overridden when it is politically convenient.

Communities Under Guard

The National Guard presence has been most visible during “clean-up” operations targeting encampments of unhoused residents. Reporting from The Washington Post shows these sweeps have displaced people with little notice, dismantling tents and scattering possessions.

Research from the American Psychological Association finds that forced removals worsen instability, harm physical and mental health, and erode trust in public institutions. Many of those affected in D.C. are Black, disabled, or LGBTQ+, placing them at heightened risk during such actions.

For visibly queer and trans residents, especially trans women, the danger is immediate and intensified. In a political climate where trans people are scapegoated and villainized, the arrival of armed forces in public spaces can magnify the risk of harassment, violence, and profiling. Historical patterns show that militarized enforcement often targets those who are most marginalized, making public space even less safe for people whose existence is already under attack.

The Language of Harm

Trump has described D.C. residents as “bloodthirsty criminals” and “animals.” Language like this dehumanizes entire communities and makes it easier to justify state violence. It frames people not as citizens with rights, but as threats to be controlled or removed.

Trauma-informed research shows that repeated exposure to dehumanizing rhetoric has lasting effects. It shapes public opinion, normalizes discriminatory attitudes, and influences how law enforcement and military personnel treat the communities they police. For marginalized groups, especially trans women and people experiencing homelessness, such language is not abstract. It is a warning that their safety is negotiable in the eyes of those in power.

Historical Echoes

This use of federal force is part of a long tradition. In the United States, “law and order” politics have repeatedly justified the deployment of troops or militarized police against communities of color, labor movements, and political dissenters.

Globally, similar tactics have marked authoritarian shifts. From the suppression of pro-democracy protests abroad to the targeting of Indigenous land defenders, the pattern is consistent: once armed control of civilian spaces is normalized in one context, it becomes easier to justify in others. These parallels matter because they show that what happens in D.C. does not stay in D.C. It sets precedent.

Policing as a System

Some argue these deployments are about safety. History tells another story. Policing in the United States grew from slave patrols and strike-breaking forces. It has always been shaped to protect those in power, not those most at risk. Saying there are “good officers” does not erase the fact that the system was built on inequity and continues to enforce it.

When the National Guard is used as a domestic police force, it inherits those same biases. Militarization escalates tension, criminalizes poverty, and silences dissent. It does not address the root causes of harm.

Overreach and Complicity

The Los Angeles deployment earlier this summer followed the same script as in D.C. Both framed local problems as crises that required federal control, sidelining community solutions. This is governance by spectacle, not substance.

Democrats have voted against almost every action of this kind, but both parties have contributed to the expansion of executive power and militarized policing over decades. Many Republicans who once criticized Trump now support him, choosing loyalty or self-interest over their duty to the public.

Structural Injustice in D.C.

This deployment highlights the injustice of D.C.’s political status. Residents pay taxes, serve in the military, and contribute to the economy, yet lack full voting rights in Congress. Federal control of the Guard reminds them that their autonomy is conditional, subject to the president’s will.

Alternatives to Militarization

Emergency powers should be limited in scope and duration. Real safety comes from stable housing, access to healthcare, quality education, and public spaces free from intimidation.

Investing in housing-first policies, trauma-informed crisis teams, and community-based safety programs addresses harm at its roots. These approaches protect dignity while building trust.

Policy change must be paired with organizing. Communities must stand together, resist displacement, and recognize that eroding one group’s rights puts everyone at risk. If you think this will never affect you, you are mistaken. If you believe privilege will shield you forever, you are part of the problem.

The Alarm Bells

What is happening in Washington, D.C., is not just a local issue. It is a warning about how quickly rights can be suspended and force used in place of dialogue. Authoritarianism rarely arrives all at once. It grows in moments like this, normalized by repetition.

The people of D.C. deserve safety, not occupation. The unhoused deserve dignity, not removal. Marginalized communities deserve protection that is not conditional on politics.

This is the moment for vigilance and for action rooted in solidarity. Because if we do not resist now, the next deployment could be anywhere. By the time it reaches your street, it may already be too late.

—————-

Visit www.GemmaOrtwerth.com for more news and Resources for Community Services and Support

[gemma-flora-ortwerth]

I Loved You. She Loves Me Better.

A dramatic reinterpretation of “Lips of an Angel” by Hinder, reimagined in the present day through the lens of queer heartbreak and healing

He called at 1:43 a.m.

No warning. No text. Just his name lighting up her screen like a bad omen in the dark.

Rhea stared at it. Her girlfriend, Jules, was asleep beside her in a worn tank top, one freckle on her collarbone, the faint scent of lavender and clay still clinging from the studio. She looked like safety. Like rest. Like love that didn’t hurt.

But still, Rhea got up.

She stepped into the hallway barefoot, phone already to her ear before her brain caught up. She didn’t say hello. She just waited.

“Rhea?” his voice cracked. “Are you there?”

It was his voice that did it. Not the words. Just the sound. Stupid, familiar, low. The kind of voice that used to drip lies like honey through her veins. The kind of voice she used to wake up beside, wondering how long she’d stay this time.

“I shouldn’t be answering,” she whispered, mostly to herself.

“I know. I just… I miss your voice.”

Rhea closed her eyes and leaned against the wall. She could almost smell him. Cedar shampoo. Cheap whiskey. That dumb cologne he thought made him interesting.

He used to call her “baby girl” right before fucking up her life. The kind of man who showed up to her gallery shows only to critique her use of space. Who’d hold her hand at brunch but disappear when she got overstimulated. Who’d say “I’m proud of you” like it was his line and not her moment.

He had abs. That was his whole thing. And a golden retriever puppy he adopted because it made him look emotionally evolved.

“You’re married now,” she said.

He was. His Instagram was a graveyard of pastel recipes and his wife’s yoga poses. Rhea never saved the posts. But she still saw them.

“I know. But I can’t stop thinking about you. Your laugh. Your skin. God, Rhea, you always wore those soft shirts that clung to your shoulders, and I—”

“Don’t.”

Silence.

“I’m not yours anymore,” she said. “I wasn’t even yours when I was with you.”

More silence.

Then, so quietly it cracked her open, “Do you love her?”

Rhea looked down the hallway. Jules had rolled over in bed, her hand resting on the pillow where Rhea’s head had been. She looked like someone who wouldn’t yell. Someone who wouldn’t turn tears into guilt.

“Yes,” Rhea said. “I do.”

She meant it like a truth. Like a prayer.

“I didn’t know you were… into women,” he muttered.

“You never asked who I was.”

The pause that followed wasn’t longing. It was what you feel when you realize you never paid attention.

“I just called because…” he trailed off.

But she already knew.

He wanted her to say she still thought of him. That she still heard his voice in dreams. That something inside her still flickered when his name showed up.

But she was done carrying his spark like a sickness.

“I have to go,” she said.

“Rhea—”

“No,” she cut in, softer now. “Go kiss your wife goodnight. I’m going back to mine.”

She hung up.

Walked back into the bedroom with a body that felt her own again. Jules stirred, eyes fluttering open.

“Everything okay?” she asked.

Rhea climbed into bed and tucked herself into the quiet.

“Yeah,” she said. “Everything’s finally okay.”

[gemma-flora-ortwerth]

Somewhere We Can Be Alone

A reimagining of “Love Story” by Taylor Swift, told with tender honesty and vivid memory

We were young.

Not just in years, but in the way we believed love could fix things. We moved through the world as if the ache we carried could be soothed by someone simply saying, I see you.

It was summer when I first saw you.

I was barefoot on the balcony, the wood still warm beneath my feet from the heat of the day. The scent of honeysuckle floated up from the garden. Below me, the party glowed. All flickering lights, soft laughter, dresses that shimmered like water. Someone played music from a speaker hidden in the bushes, and the whole night pulsed like a heartbeat waiting to be named.

Then you appeared.

You didn’t rush.

You moved through the crowd with calm certainty, sleeves rolled past your elbows, hands in your pockets like you belonged wherever you decided to be. People turned as you passed, but you didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe you just didn’t care.

You looked up.

You saw me.

Our eyes met in the hush between songs. You didn’t smile right away. You waited. Then you walked toward me, slow and deliberate, until you were standing at the base of the balcony.

“Hi,” you said.

And just like that, the world rearranged itself.

I never imagined you would come back.

That night and every night after, I would find you beneath my window. You tossed acorns at the glass, soft and careful, just enough to get my attention without waking the whole house. It was your way. Gentle, deliberate, full of meaning where others gave noise.

But one night, the porch light snapped on.

My father stormed out, rage written across his face. I was already halfway down the trellis, my dress snagged on the railing. He didn’t ask questions. He didn’t care to understand.

He pointed at you and shouted from the lawn.

“Stay away from Aveline.”

You didn’t argue.

You looked at me one last time. Then you stepped back into the dark.

He dragged me inside like I was something fragile that might break in front of him. I collapsed onto the staircase the moment the door closed. I didn’t scream. I didn’t speak. I simply sat there, hands folded in my lap, tears falling onto the silk of my dress like rain on water.

I whispered into the quiet, again and again.

Please don’t leave.

Please come back.

Please take me somewhere far from this.

Because what they called love in that house had never been safe. It was measured in silence, in anger, in things unsaid and doors left halfway open. You were the first thing that felt like freedom.

I waited.

Night after night, I crept out to the garden. Sometimes you were already there, waiting beneath the old oak tree. Other times I stood alone in the moonlight, hands wrapped around my elbows, hoping the stillness would bring you back. When you came, we didn’t speak loudly. We sat close, knees nearly touching, words pressed between us like petals in a book.

You told me to close my eyes.

You said, “Just for a minute. Imagine we’re somewhere else.”

So I did.

And in that moment, I believed we could be.

Some nights you didn’t come. I told myself you must be waiting too. But the silence grew heavier with each passing week. I started to wonder if I had imagined it all. If love was something I had made up in the spaces between your visits.

One night, when the waiting felt too heavy to carry, I left the house and walked to the edge of town.

The sky was low and grey, the air thick with the kind of stillness that makes you feel like you’re the only person in the world. I didn’t expect to see you.

But there you were.

You stood beneath a broken streetlamp, your hair damp from the mist. You looked older somehow. Tired, but certain. You didn’t speak right away. You just reached into your coat and pulled out a small box.

You knelt, slowly, in the grass.

The world didn’t hold its breath. It didn’t need to.

This wasn’t a spectacle.

It was our truth.

“Marry me, Aveline,” you said.

“You’ll never be alone again. I love you. That’s all I know. I spoke to your father. You’re free. Come with me.”

There was no music.

No applause.

Just the soft hush of the wind and the sound of my heart remembering what it meant to say yes.

I wasn’t a secret anymore.

I wasn’t a girl on a balcony or a shadow slipping through the trees.

I was yours.

And I was free.

We were both young when I first saw you.

But somehow, even then, I knew.

[gemma-flora-ortwerth]

9 O’Clock and Still a Clown

a dramatic analysis of “Fashionably Late” by Falling In Reverse, as told by someone who’s had enough of men and their bullshit

It’s nine o’clock.

Not early. Not late.

Right on time.

The sky is that hazy in-between shade, the kind you only get in early September. Faint pink mixed with dusty lavender, clinging to the edge of sunset like it’s too scared to let go. The air is sticky, heavy with leftover heat from a sun that’s already forgotten you. The sidewalk hums under cheap flats. Streetlights flicker like they’re winking out warnings.

Maria walks up slow. Not hesitant, just exhausted. She’s coming straight from work, again. The kind of job where the floor is always sticky and the tips come in crumpled singles. Her dress is wrinkled at the hip, her makeup’s faded just enough to show how long her day has been. But she still shows up. Lip gloss on. Shoulders back. Hope, barely, still intact.

She pushes through the bar doors. One of those too-trendy, too-cold spots that tries way too hard to pretend it's not just a glorified Applebee’s. Blue lighting. Loud music. Tables that wobble.

And there he is.

Kyle.

Already laughing. Already leaning way too close to Rebecca. Already sipping a drink that isn’t his and acting like he owns the place.

Maria stops walking.

She doesn’t say anything.

She doesn’t need to.

Rebecca sees her first. Freezes. Moves her hand like it wasn’t just resting on his arm. And Kyle? Kyle turns like this is some kind of surprise party. Smiles like he didn’t spend the last week swearing he was done being messy. Like he wasn’t the one who asked Maria to come here in the first place.

“Babe,” he says.

Just that. Nothing else.

Maria doesn’t respond. But the silence says everything. And Kyle, because he can never let silence hold power, fills it.

“We were just talking. You’re being dramatic again.”

Classic.

The worst part is she’s heard it all before. This entire scene has played out like reruns on a channel she keeps forgetting to cancel. Kyle, the eternal frat boy with a guitar and zero self-awareness. The king of “I didn’t mean it” and “You’re overreacting.”

He gives her the speech. The whole script.

“I’m not that guy.”

“I hate that I hurt you.”

“I didn’t plan it. It just happened.”

And somewhere in there, like the encore to a show no one paid for, he drops the line.

“Sorry about making out with your friends.”

Like that’s supposed to make it better. Like the apology somehow cancels out the betrayal.

And Maria just stands there, watching him spin guilt into confetti. She looks past his cologne and his smug little shrug. She sees it all for what it really is.

He was the guy who showed up when she was at her worst. When she had just moved out. When she felt unlovable. When she didn’t know where to land. And he came in with that smile and that voice and that little golden retriever puppy named Moose, and he made it seem like healing was something soft and easy.

Moose is probably home right now, curled up on the couch, waiting for someone who doesn't deserve him. The only warm thing about Kyle is that damn dog. Ears too big, eyes too innocent. He was the reason she stayed the first time Kyle pulled this stunt. And the second. Maybe even the third.

Because Kyle with Moose looked like a future. A soft one. A real one.

But this?

This is just another scene from a play she’s already tired of performing in.

Another night where her trust is a joke, and her pain is background noise.

He tells her again he didn’t mean to. That it was just a mistake. That he doesn’t want to make her cry. But the truth is he does. Not because he enjoys it, but because it keeps her close. Because he’s the kind of guy who only feels wanted when someone is begging him to change.

Maria deserves someone who doesn’t need to be begged.

It’s nine o’clock.

Her drink is sweating in her hand. The bar is too loud. Her heart is quiet for once. And for the first time, she’s not waiting for him to fix it.

She’s just watching the curtain fall.

[gemma-flora-ortwerth]

In a perfect world, this would be our system of government.

[gemma-flora-ortwerth]

Hand-drawn on Procreate using my iPad, this collage features some of my favorite Pokémon across generations. Every line was placed with care—no copy-paste, just hours of layering and love. Which one’s your favorite?

[gemma-flora-ortwerth]

Echoes and Ashes

by Gemma Flora Ortwerth

I come prepared.

Each fact laid like stone, each word placed with care.

I carry the voices of those long silenced,

not to shout, but to remind.

This isn’t a war of strength.

It’s a test of who can keep speaking

when no one listens.

And still, I echo.

You bring nothing but fire.

Misinformation burns faster than truth builds.

You light matches with scripture,

wave flags stitched with denial,

call it freedom while choking the roots

we’ve spent generations trying to grow.

You call it opinion,

but it’s policy now.

Policy that unravels wombs and identities,

that cages mothers and buries names.

You pass laws like curses,

each one more cruel than the last.

Still, I echo, though the silence grows louder.

Why do you choose this?

Why worship power that was never yours

to wield?

Why flinch at the lives of trans kids,

but not at the bullets tearing through backpacks.

Why cling to relics of conquest and pride,

but turn away from the wounds still bleeding?

Why pretend your hands are clean

when we are still washing the blood from our schools,

our hospitals,

our borders?

I ask. I ask.

You do not answer.

And so, my echo cracks.

I build.

Still.

I craft refuge in sentences,

gather warmth in the ashes,

hold space for every soul scorched

by your gospel of control.

For those who are hunted,

exhausted,

nearly gone,

you are not alone.

We are louder together.

And to you,

who came not to listen

but to burn,

know this:

I no longer echo for you.

I echo in spite of you.

I echo for us.

[gemma-flora-ortwerth]

I drew this entirely on Procreate with the shows playing in the background as reference. No copy and paste. Just me, my Apple Pencil, and about 30 hours of sketching, layering, and careful color matching.

This piece is pure cartoon chaos and a love letter to the millennial and Gen Z kids who were raised by the weirdest, loudest, most unforgettable characters on TV.

Drawn by me, Gemma Flora Ortwerth.

Please credit if you share.

[gemma-flora-ortwerth]

🌈✨ This is Kaleidoscope Collective.

Not just a movement—a mirrorball of truth, resistance, and radical love.

This promo video is just the beginning. We’re here to uplift the voices they keep trying to silence: queer, disabled, BIPOC, immigrant, neurodivergent, and beautifully othered communities.

We fight disinformation with art.

We challenge apathy with clarity.

We build worlds where everyone belongs.

🎥 Watch the full promo

Then join us. Create. Organize. Be loud. Be soft. Be real.

[gemma-flora-ortwerth]

Book Review | The Seeker and the Seven Animals

By Kaleidoscope Collective

This book feels like a breath of fresh air. In a world that’s constantly loud and rushing toward something, The Seeker and the Seven Animals invites you to slow down and actually listen. Not just to words, but to the earth, your body, your emotions, and the things you forgot to notice.

What we love most is how honest and unforced it is. Nothing about this story screams for attention. It just gently opens up space for reflection. Every chapter gives you time to think, feel, and reconnect without judgment or pressure to “get it right.”

There’s no big hero moment here. No final boss or sudden revelation. Instead, this book values the quiet kind of courage—the kind rooted in presence, in connection, in letting yourself evolve with intention.

At Kaleidoscope Collective, we’re always looking for work that challenges the usual pace and honors different ways of knowing. This book fits right into that vision. It’s tender. It’s thoughtful. It speaks to people who are tired of pretending that growth has to be linear or loud.

The Seeker and the Seven Animals isn’t just a story. It’s something you carry with you. Something you come back to when the world starts to feel too heavy. And sometimes, that’s exactly what you need.

[gemma-flora-ortwerth]

Let’s Talk About the ICE Raids, the Planes, and the Gaslighting

By Kaleidoscope Collective

Every time we post about immigration raids, forced deportation flights, or Trump’s violent rhetoric, we see the same recycled counterarguments. These comments usually reflect propaganda, not facts. So here’s a breakdown of the most common responses, and why they fall apart under even minimal scrutiny.

1. “They’re illegal. They shouldn’t be here.”

Seeking asylum is legal under both U.S. and international law. The U.S. Constitution protects the rights of all people on American soil, not just citizens. Calling someone “illegal” is a political tactic used to strip away their humanity and justify cruelty. Being undocumented is a civil offense, not a felony.

2. “A country without borders isn’t a country.”

No one is arguing against borders existing. What we are challenging is the use of those borders as weapons to separate families, detain children, and deport vulnerable people into danger. This is not about national security. It is about control, racial targeting, and fear-based policy.

3. “They’re just being deported, not sent to camps.”

ICE facilities have been repeatedly exposed for horrific conditions. Overcrowding, inadequate medical care, isolation, and physical and psychological abuse are all well-documented. Families are being torn apart. People vanish into a system with no accountability. This is not routine deportation. This is systemic abuse.

4. “There’s no proof they’re being dropped from planes.”

No one credible is claiming people are being literally dropped mid-air. The issue is the secrecy and lack of oversight surrounding deportation flights. Migrants are often flown out of the country with no notice, no legal recourse, and no way to contact their families or lawyers. The logistics are intentionally opaque, which should alarm everyone.

5. “If you don’t want this to happen, follow the law.”

This assumes the law is applied fairly, which it is not. Most of the people being targeted are not violent offenders. Many are asylum seekers or migrant workers fleeing conditions caused in part by U.S. policy. The immigration system is intentionally broken and designed to fail the most vulnerable. “Follow the law” is often code for “stay silent and disappear.”

What we are witnessing is not normal. It is not just politics. It is the slow normalization of state violence and the erosion of human rights.

Kaleidoscope Collective will continue to speak out. We will not allow truth to be buried under talking points and denial. If you feel the same, speak up. Organize. Refuse to look away.

No one is illegal. No one deserves to be erased.

[gemma-flora-ortwerth]

Borders Aren’t Real, But Injustice Is: A Queer Feminist Breakdown of U.S. Immigration Lies

Why I’m Speaking Up Now

I’m not an immigration attorney. I’m not at the border. I haven’t lived through the detention system. But I will not stay quiet while people justify cruelty, tear families apart, and use brown and Black lives as political scapegoats.

What’s happening to migrants in this country is violent. It is dehumanizing. It is deliberate. And far too many people accept it because they’ve been taught to see borders as more sacred than human life.

This issue is not abstract to me. It is part of the same system that devalues queer lives, disables autonomy, and polices who gets to belong. I don’t speak for everyone, but I speak with conviction. I speak because I have watched power bend truth into tools of harm. I speak because this silence is a choice, and I refuse to choose it.

So if you’ve ever said “this is complicated,” or repeated a talking point about “coming here the right way,” I want you to read this. Really read it. Because we are long past the point of neutrality.

Borders Are Fiction, But Human Rights Are Real

People love to say “secure our borders” like it is some eternal truth. But borders are invented. They are political tools, drawn by colonizers, shaped by war, and enforced through violence. They shift with power, not with principle.

What is real are the people crossing them. What is real is the pain of separation, the fear of deportation, and the trauma inflicted by a government that treats immigration like a crime scene.

The U.S. Constitution does not reserve rights for citizens. It protects all people on U.S. soil. Courts have upheld this again and again. But that legal truth is buried under fearmongering about “illegals” and “invasions” that have no basis in reality.

And here’s the legal fact most people ignore: entering the country without papers or overstaying a visa is not a criminal offense. It is a civil violation. That means it is treated like jaywalking or speeding. But instead of a fine, we put people in cages. Instead of compassion, we unleash militarized agencies.

This has never been about safety. It has always been about control.

There Is No Line to Wait In

One of the most repeated lies is the idea that people just need to immigrate “the legal way.” For most people, especially those fleeing violence, there is no line. There is no paperwork they can file from their home country to seek asylum. They must already be here to apply.

For many, there is no path at all. Immigration quotas are rooted in racism, designed to favor white Europeans while excluding the rest of the world. The system is not broken. It was built to exclude.

From the Chinese Exclusion Act to the Muslim Ban, the United States has always used immigration law to reinforce racial hierarchies. The structure was never about fairness. It was about keeping power in the hands of the privileged.

So when someone asks “why didn’t they just come legally,” the answer is simple. They weren’t allowed to. They were shut out by a system designed to deny them.

Would you wait in an invisible line while your child starved? Would you trust a process designed to fail you? Or would you run toward life and take the only chance you had?

No One Is Stealing Your Resources

This country loves to blame immigrants for its own failures. People claim they are a drain on the system, that they take jobs, that they use up benefits. These are lies repeated to distract you from who is actually hoarding resources.

Undocumented immigrants pay billions in taxes every year. They contribute through sales taxes, property taxes, and payroll taxes using ITINs. They pay into systems they are barred from accessing.

They cannot get food stamps. They cannot get Medicaid. They cannot get housing aid. They pay in. They are locked out.

Meanwhile, they fill essential jobs, grow our food, clean our buildings, care for our families. They support local economies. They are a vital part of the labor force. Without them, much of this country would collapse.

The people stealing from you are not immigrants. They are billionaires, landlords, and politicians who convince you to blame your neighbors instead of them.

“Illegal” Is a Weapon, Not a Fact

Calling someone “illegal” is a way to erase their humanity. It is not a legal term. It is a slur used to justify violence.

Most immigration violations are civil, not criminal. You do not deport someone for jaywalking. You do not rip children from parents over a paperwork issue. Unless, of course, the goal is not law. The goal is punishment.

And let’s talk about whose violations actually get punished. Canadians and Europeans overstay visas all the time. They are almost never targeted. You do not see ICE in Irish pubs or German neighborhoods.

Instead, enforcement focuses on Black and Brown communities. This is not accidental. It is how racialized power works. The law is applied based on skin color, not legal status.

“Illegal” means foreign. It means disposable. It means the state has decided someone does not deserve dignity.

The Real Crisis Is What We’re Doing to Them

What the United States is doing to migrants is torture. It is state violence carried out in detention centers, on deportation flights, in courtrooms where people have no lawyers and no language access.

Children sleep in freezing rooms under foil blankets. People are sexually assaulted, denied medical care, and caged for months without charges. Trans migrants face horrific abuse. Families are deported to death.

This is not a malfunction. It is not a few bad apples. It is the system working as designed. It is profitable. It is efficient. And it is cruel on purpose.

Private prison corporations make billions off detention. Politicians score points by promising more raids. The entire structure is a machine built to extract labor, break spirits, and enforce fear.

If you are not horrified, you are not paying attention.

You Still Have a Choice

People like to imagine they would have helped during history’s darkest moments. They think they would have spoken out, hidden families, marched in the streets. But those moments are not past tense.

They are right now.

Right now, people are being disappeared into detention centers. Right now, children are being deported alone. Right now, the government is using your tax dollars to terrorize your neighbors.

If you are silent, you are complicit. If you look away, you are choosing comfort over justice.

You can still act. You can donate to immigrant-led organizations. You can challenge lies when you hear them. You can amplify voices that are being silenced. You can demand the end of detention and the abolition of ICE.

This is not just about immigration. It is about what kind of world we are willing to accept.

This Is About Liberation

Borders are not sacred. They are strategies of empire. They exist to keep power consolidated and lives divided. They are used to control who gets freedom, who gets safety, who gets to stay alive.

This struggle is deeply connected to queer and feminist liberation. The same systems that criminalize migration also criminalize our bodies. They erase trans lives, ban reproductive healthcare, punish anyone who refuses to conform.

If we want a world rooted in justice, we must fight for all people to move freely, live safely, and exist without fear.

I am not here to debate anyone’s right to exist. I am here to tell the truth. I am here to stand with those targeted by this system. And I am asking you to do the same.

Because no border is more important than a life. No law justifies this violence. And no one is illegal.