Adena M'lynn's Voice

by Adena M’lynn There’s a silence that doesn’t sit still. It leaks. It seeps under the door, trickles down the spine, stains the floorboards where no one will ever look. This silence is not peace— it’s a tourniquet pulled too tight, a scream swallowed so deep it grows roots in the ribcage. It bleeds without color, without sound, but you can taste it if you breathe too hard— that copper tang of words never spoken, of memories pressed between teeth until the jaw aches. People think bleeding means red. They forget about the kind that drains you in whispers, that turns your bones into hollow reeds, that plays the same note over and over don’t tell, don’t tell, don’t tell. The silence that bleeds doesn’t ask for bandages— it asks for a witness, for someone to step inside the quiet and name it. Until then, it will keep seeping, a wound the body has memorized, a shadow that keeps its own heartbeat.

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 and the millions of other survivors of childhood sexual trauma Rape is never okay. Don’t come at me with your “But what was she wearing?” I swear on every god that’s ever grieved, the hemline of my skirt was not an invitation to your violence. Don’t come at me with “Boys will be boys” unless you’re ready to explain why your definition of boyhood includes bruises on my thighs and silence stitched into my throat. Don’t come at me with your locker room logic, your courtroom gaslight, your Bible verse bent like a noose around my body. And don’t you dare stand in a position of power— behind a podium, in a pulpit, on the marble floors of justice— while holding your penis in your hand under your desk, undressing me with the same hand that grades papers signs bills and contracts and GAG orders. You, in your tailored suit, with your    MBA, Manipulation, Bullying & Abuse  and, your handshake that feels like a trapdoor— you think power means entitlement, me...