Adena M'lynn's Voice

Some people say life is like a box of chocolates— silky choices, soft centers, surprises wrapped in gold foil like blessing after blessing waiting to be unwrapped. But me? My life… my life is more like a dollar-store pack of cherry sours. Yeah— those bright red, round little lies that look sweet at first glance, glassed-over in sugar like they came from a childhood dream. You pick one up, thinking  finally — this one’s gonna be good. This one’s gonna melt sweet on the tongue, go down easy, be the kind of comfort you don’t have to brace yourself for. And the first one? Oh, the first one never misses. It hits you with that candy-coated promise— that  this  time, this moment, this chapter might actually be soft. That maybe the world has finally decided to taste like kindness. So you crave another. Another little red candleball to light up the dark with sugar and hope. But the next one? That next bite? It betrays you. Sour. Sharp. Like a memory you thought you swallowed years...

Every morning, I pull in They tell me, just keep going, like I’m some truck stop cowboy with an endless road stretched out in neon lines. But mental illness— it ain’t a smooth ride. It’s a gas can strapped to my back, sloshing heavy with fumes that choke before they fuel. Every morning, I pull into the station, coin jar empty, pockets turned inside out, yet they say, filler-up and roll on. So I siphon from yesterday’s pain, pouring it into today’s tank, driving on borrowed fire that burns more than it moves me. Sometimes the gauge lies. Reads full when I’m bone dry, reads empty when I’m blazing. Either way, I’m stranded on a shoulder where hope is just another car that passes by without stopping. Mental illness is the gas you can’t afford, the tank that leaks slow but steady, the smell that sticks to your hands long after you’ve washed them clean. And the diesel— thick in the air, always a reminder that “fuel” and “funeral” share the same breath. Still I grab the nozzle, fumble with sh...

 In class Thursday evening, we explored how silence can be both a comfort and a cage. We talked about how spoken word gives us permission to let the quiet places inside us speak out loud. From that discussion, this piece was born. It’s called “Rust in the Silence”— a reminder that even the words we bury, the truths we try to swallow, will find their way out. And when they do, they don’t come out polished.  One of my greatest inspirations,  Maya Angelou, once wrote of a caged bird that sings—not because it is free, but because song is the only way the spirit can break beyond the bars. This piece was born from that same truth. My silence was not golden; it was rust—corroding, pressing, weighing me down until my voice clawed its way back. Rust in the Silence is a reminder that even the words we bury, the truths we try to swallow, will find their way out. And when they do, they don’t come out polished—they come out jagged, trembling, and real. “Rust in the Silence” They told ...