Adena M'lynn's Voice

  by Adena M’lynn I didn’t learn to lie from a liar’s academy. I learned to lie from the people who demanded truth— the ones who looked me in the face and said, “Tell me what happened,” then flinched when I actually did. See, the truth I carried wasn’t dressed for guests. It didn’t come in tidy sentences or soft colors. It came in bruised shapes and late night shadows and footsteps that didn’t belong in a child’s room. So when I handed it over— small hands open, voice shaking— they recoiled. “No. That’s not true. Stop lying.” And that’s the moment a child becomes a scientist— experimenting with stories the way other kids try on shoes in the back of Gibson’s store on a Saturday afternoon. Does this one fit? No? Too big? Too scary? Too close to the thing you don’t want to believe? Okay… try another. This one? Too small? Not believable enough? Try again. So I learned quickly, the truth wasn’t what happened. The truth was whatever made adults say, “Okay.” Whatever let them exhale. What...

Rain is woman. She moves in silence, a thousand silver tongues whispering life back into the dust. Fire is harm. It comes loud, cracks open the night, devours until nothing is left but blackened corners. When the flames die down, what’s left is the stench— smoke clinging to walls, to lungs, to memory. What’s left is the smoldering, embers pulsing like cruel reminders that pain doesn’t vanish just because the blaze has burned out. Men with matches call it love, but love does not leave a woman choking on ashes.  Love does not brand her skin with scorch marks. Yet rain— she returns anyway. She seeps into the ruin, turns char to soil, lays herself down on the embers until they lose their last breath of heat. Rain is woman. She carries the scars— but she also carries renewal. Though narcissistic men may set her aflame again and again, they will never outlast her. Because the stench fades, the smoke lifts, and what remains, always— is rain. ...