Adena M'lynn's Voice

  By Adena M’lynn I wore a paper bag like a second skin— not for fashion, but for forgetting. Two holes cut just wide enough to see the world but never let it see me. They said, “Look in the mirror, tell me what you see.” But I couldn’t bear to meet the eyes of a face I was told was too much, too broken, too wrong. The bag whispered safety. It muted the mirror’s judgment, blurred the lines between what I was and what they made me believe. It said, Shut-up, You’re not her. You’re not here. You’re not real. I learned to live through slits— narrow truths, fragmented days, a life filtered through what I thought they could handle. The paper absorbed my silence, soaked up the tears that never dared to fall in public, and crinkled with every movement— a rustling reminder that even hiding makes noise. Sometimes, I dream of setting that bag on fire. Of letting the smoke curl upward like a prayer, Make me whole— not perfect, just pieced back together with gentleness, not glue made of guilt. ...

by Adena M’lynn She used to dream in pink and pirouettes— a swirl of sugar plum fairies spinning across hardwood floors, slippers soft as lullabies, tutus blooming like springtime in her chest. Each night, she whispered wishes into the seams of her pillow, braiding tomorrow with glitter and the promise of an “attagirl”! But no one told her that monsters don’t always live under beds— sometimes they live down the hall, smell like beer and betrayal, and wear the face of someone who says “I love you” without meaning it. She danced anyway, even when the music got swallowed by screams, even when the lights flickered like the truth no one would name. She learned how to bend before she learned how to break— flexible like forgiveness she never owed. The sugar plum fairies stopped coming. Replaced by silence, and a body that never felt like home again. A stage turned into a cell, a costume into a mask she wore just to survive. Now she doesn’t dream in pink— she dreams in warning signs, locks on ...

 by Adena M’lynn I wasn’t born with an asterisk, but I should’ve been. Right there on the birth certificate— next to weight, length, time of arrival— a tiny * curled like a warning label, a whisper that says, subject to harm. survival may resemble defiance. terms and conditions may apply. Nobody tells you the first scream you let out might echo for decades. That the cradle isn’t always safer than the storm, and sometimes love comes with latex gloves and non-disclosure agreements. I didn’t read the fine print. Didn’t know “you’re so mature for your age” was code for, *we’ll exploit you and call it a compliment. Didn’t see the clause that read, *this child will become fluent in apology, even for things that weren’t her fault. Didn’t realize the survival skills— those sharp-edged gifts she carved from trauma— would one day be criminalized. Would send her straight to hell, to prison, where she’d be taught how to bury pain like it was contraband, taught to catalog her hurt like inventor...