“Under Construction”

By Adena M’lynn

They told me healing was a straight shot—

but my mind’s been under construction

since the first time a scream

set up detour signs in my chest.


See—

my thoughts don’t come with warning cones.

Some days the asphalt is smooth,

other days

it’s potholes deep enough

to swallow my whole damn name.


There’s a backhoe in my brain

digging up memories I paved over years ago.

I buried my trauma under concrete

but it still finds a way

to buckle the surface

when the weather turns shameful.


I am a one-woman work zone.

Hard hat dreams

and no clear exit signs.


Mental illness ain’t a scenic route—

it’s rerouting at midnight,

it’s the GPS whispering recalculating

when I swear I’ve been here before.


Some mornings I am traffic backed up for miles.

Some nights

I am every orange barrel you cursed on the way home.

I am slow down.

I am wait your turn.

I am don’t honk—

I’m doing the best I can with these broken tools.


I built detachment like an overpass,

thinking it would help me

get over it.

But every bridge I’ve burned

still smolders in the rearview mirror of my ribcage.


Don’t ask me to speed up

when my serotonin is stuck in gridlock.

Don’t tell me it’s “all in my head”

when the head’s the foundation

and the blueprints got water damage.


This mind is a project site,

and some days the workers walk off the job.

But I I’m still here.

Still laying bricks made of breath,

still pouring concrete from courage.


And maybe, just maybe,

one day I’ll look back at all these roadblocks—

and realize

they were leading me

home.


A tired but strong female construction worker stands on a cracked road, wearing a worn reflective vest and helmet. She holds a weathered cardboard sign reading “STILL WORKING ON IT.” Behind her are orange traffic barrels, partially constructed bridges, and a cloudy sky beginning to part, casting light on the scene. The image conveys resilience and perseverance in a gritty, cinematic style.


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