Adena M'lynn's Voice

by Inmate 07770-062  Mr. P never wore a badge that said  police, never carried the swagger of a street cop. Just a guard. A man who once dreamed of white aprons, steel pans clanging like applause, flavors blooming in the steam. Then Desert Storm came, left sand in his bones and a shadow in his step. Prison work was steady— steady enough to forget the kitchen for a while. Steady enough to believe the slogans, Repent. Rehabilitate. Steady enough to watch other people’s clocks tick away their time. Dreams? They started to feel like they belonged to someone else. Until the day he saw her— not in the mess hall, not in the yard— but in her cell, shoulders bent over a plastic bowl, chopping onion, fresh jalapeño, ripe tomato—every bit contraband. The blade in her hand was no kitchen issue. One call and she’d be written up. But he didn’t call. He just watched, listening as she poured out recipes like they were prayer— gumbo thick enough to stand a spoon, beignets soft and tasty as a S...

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 There are days when words fold in on themselves— like paper cranes in a storm. When grief grows too heavy for syllables to lift, and the mouth becomes a tomb of unfinished prayers. I’ve tried to name the ache, to pull it out like a splinter of meaning lodged beneath the skin of memory— but it refuses to come clean. Instead, it hums behind my ribs, a silent hymn I can’t translate. Some things don’t have letters. Some pain doesn’t rhyme. Sometimes you open your mouth and what comes out isn’t language— it’s breath, or sob,  or scream, or silence so loud it swallows the room. I’ve written poems that bled through pages, each line a bandage on something I couldn’t explain. I’ve spoken truth in metaphors because the real words were too raw,  too real. And still— it wasn’t enough. Because how do you write the sound of your heart breaking in a language that requires grammar? How do you paint the color of despair without making it beautiful? Some pain refuses to be roman...