Adena M'lynn's Voice

I carried silence like a sentence long before the judge stamped years across my chest. But silence was never my native tongue— I spoke in scribbles, in broken pencils on scraps of paper, in words that shook like my hands but still stood taller than the walls. Even in prison I wasn’t quiet. I wrote for women craving zu-zu’s and wham-whams, but what they were starving for was laughter. So I smuggled joy in jokes, hid giggles inside commissary lists, slipped punchlines under cell doors like contraband. Because pain echoes loud in concrete chambers, and the only way to drown it is to hum the heart with joy. Laughter chased the shadows down the hallway, made the guards wonder what we were plotting— as if happiness itself was a crime. Writing freed me from the haunt of thoughts, from memories circling like predators. Every poem was a fist turned into an open hand, every line a prayer that didn’t ask permission. I bent. I cracked. But I did not shatter. I traded sorrow for syllables, barbed w...

by Adena M’lynn When I become the sunrise, I’ll paint your windows gold so even the darkest night can’t convince you it’s forever. When I become laughter, I’ll hide in your pockets and tumble out at the exact moment you think you’ve forgotten joy. When I become a tree, I’ll grow wild branches that bend just enough to let you climb higher than you ever thought you could. When I become rain, I’ll wash the dust from your shoulders, turn your sidewalks into rivers, and teach you to dance without music. When I become tomorrow, I’ll arrive with open hands, a calendar not yet written on, a promise that anything— everything— is still possible. And when I become hope, I won’t knock. I’ll move in, rearrange the furniture, hang your walls with light, and remind you— you were always meant for more than survival.