Adena M'lynn's Voice

  Inspired through being loved, I learned that even in silence and closed doors, agape lingers as gratitude and learning “trust.” ~Adena M’lynn Why do you haunt my mind? I thought silence would be the cure, thought that if I blocked you, I could finally breathe again. But every time, my trembling finger hovered over the button, I’d undo it— because love isn’t built to erase. Your smile— it ambushes me. In laughter I wasn’t expecting, in words as small as chigger, in texts that should remained unwritten — and suddenly there, like a kindness that refuses to die, “hiiii”. I don’t understand why I had to do the very thing that hurt you— lie. I never wanted to be the one to crack the fragile glass of trust. My heart breaks as I say this: I never wanted harm to carry my name. But my name has too often stood for  pain. You— you were the mirror that showed me how my actions ripple outwards. You taught me that kindness isn’t an idea, it’s a practice. That love— the real kind, the agape...

For the men who say they love women.  by Adena M’lynn   You say you love women— like a hunter loves the mounted deer head. Like a landlord loves the rent check. Like a shepherd loves a flock that never wanders too far. You say you respect women— but only when they know their place, when they nod without volume, when they bleed without asking for towels or rights. You say you were raised right— to open doors, to pay for dinner, to lead the prayer while she stays quiet with her eyes lowered like the second coming of shame. But let me ask you this, What is love if it only blooms when you’re in control? What is respect if it evaporates the moment she disagrees? You loved her voice until she used it. You say women are sacred— but your idea of sacred comes with conditions: legs crossed, lips sealed, loyalty to your ego above her soul. And God help her if she has a boundary you didn’t approve in advance. You keep calling women “queens”  but treat them like unpaid maids  in ...

by Adena M’lynn Life is nothing more than strings of moments threaded like popcorn on a Christmas tree— fragile, uneven, handmade. Some pieces are sweet, coated in sugar like laughter shared under July stars. Others are burnt, bitter— words we wish we hadn’t said but still string up anyway. We pass each other like hands threading the next kernel, not knowing if we’re adding to something beautiful or just trying to keep the thread from breaking. People come and go— but like ornaments packed away each year, some return with new cracks, different colors, the same name. And still, the garland grows. Changing, but never really changing. Memory is sticky like sap— you can’t touch someone without carrying a piece of them with you. Love is the space between the knots, grief is the popcorn that falls off unnoticed, and forgiveness is tying the thread again even when your fingers shake. We hang each year like it’s the last, hoping the lights still work, knowing some bulbs have burned out, but tr...