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 There’s a flood warning in her chest every morning— Grief swelling behind the levees of her ribs, where childhood never learned to swim. She carries a drowning girl in her lungs, gasping between grocery aisles and conversations that start with “How are you?” and expect a lie in return. Her smile is earthquake-proof— reinforced with sarcasm and silence. But beneath her skin, fault lines shift without warning. She’s learned to talk without trembling, even when the past erupts like lava from a fault she didn’t create but still gets blamed for. Her body is a wildfire zone. A red flag warning every time she’s touched without consent. Even kindness feels like a spark— too close, too warm, and suddenly she’s back in the blaze of hands that branded her before she could spell the word “no.” She’s lived through landslides of trust. One betrayal pulls down a mountain of belief. She builds relationships on shaky soil, hoping no one notices how much of her foundation eroded before s...

 by Adena M’lynn She is the keeper of secrets— not the sweet kind tucked in birthday cards or whispered before kisses, but the kind with teeth. The kind that sleep under floorboards, rattle the pipes, and fog the mirrors when she tries to see herself clearly. These are the secrets that could shatter a church, a family name, a politician’s smile. The kind shared only when someone’s zipper is down and their conscience lower. The kind exchanged like blackmail with a handshake that smells like bleach and guilt. She didn’t ask for them— they were shoved into her silence like a dirty rag in the mouth of a girl told to smile. These secrets distort her mind, twist the compass of right and wrong into a roulette wheel— spin it, pull the trigger, pray the truth doesn’t kill what little peace she’s gathered like pennies from the floor. Some days she forgets what was real and what was survival. Some nights she watches the ceiling crack under the pressure of all the names she’ll never speak. Wha...