Adena M'lynn's Voice

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 ...

Hospitals are supposed to be places of healing. But for her, they were another kind of stage—curtains drawn back, lights glaring, audience unseen. A theater where she was always performing, never applauding. Only this ballet had no music, just the low hum of fluorescent lights and the rustle of paper gowns. She lost count of how many acts she’d performed under that cold, relentless glow. Sometimes she entered willingly, hand in hand with someone who cared. Other times, she was carried in—by EMTs, by officers, by the heavy choreography of breakdowns. The opening scene was always the same “the intake” act. Bright lights overhead. A script she never wanted to learn. “What brings you here?” She wanted to say: Everything.  Instead, she muttered her rehearsed lines, depression, anxiety, self-harm. Sometimes silence took the stage. She let the machines take her pulse while someone with a clipboard decided which part of her to erase. The lights in psych wards never dim. They buzz and flick...