Adena M'lynn's Voice

I carried silence like a sentence long before the judge stamped years across my chest. But silence was never my native tongue— I spoke in scribbles, in broken pencils on scraps of paper, in words that shook like my hands but still stood taller than the walls. Even in prison I wasn’t quiet. I wrote for women craving zu-zu’s and wham-whams, but what they were starving for was laughter. So I smuggled joy in jokes, hid giggles inside commissary lists, slipped punchlines under cell doors like contraband. Because pain echoes loud in concrete chambers, and the only way to drown it is to hum the heart with joy. Laughter chased the shadows down the hallway, made the guards wonder what we were plotting— as if happiness itself was a crime. Writing freed me from the haunt of thoughts, from memories circling like predators. Every poem was a fist turned into an open hand, every line a prayer that didn’t ask permission. I bent. I cracked. But I did not shatter. I traded sorrow for syllables, barbed w...

by Adena M’lynn She used to dream in pink and pirouettes— a swirl of sugar plum fairies spinning across hardwood floors, slippers soft as lullabies, tutus blooming like springtime in her chest. Each night, she whispered wishes into the seams of her pillow, braiding tomorrow with glitter and the promise of an “attagirl”! But no one told her that monsters don’t always live under beds— sometimes they live down the hall, smell like beer and betrayal, and wear the face of someone who says “I love you” without meaning it. She danced anyway, even when the music got swallowed by screams, even when the lights flickered like the truth no one would name. She learned how to bend before she learned how to break— flexible like forgiveness she never owed. The sugar plum fairies stopped coming. Replaced by silence, and a body that never felt like home again. A stage turned into a cell, a costume into a mask she wore just to survive. Now she doesn’t dream in pink— she dreams in warning signs, locks on ...

This poem is for my friend Lenny and all the other Lenny’s who have faced down racism and hatred. She was born of pain—poor, Black, and forgotten by the systems meant to protect her. Raised in a world that mistook her resilience for rebellion, she learned to navigate life with scars no one saw and strength no one acknowledged. Lenny didn’t grow up with privilege; she grew up with survival. This poem is her voice—a reflection of the fire she walked through just to be heard. Born of Pain or Born of Privilege by Adena M’lynn Were you born of pain or born of privilege— did the world greet you with lullabies or locks? Did your crib come with silver spoons or warnings not to cry too loud? I was born where the screaming didn’t stop, where love was rationed like powdered milk, where bedtime stories came with bruises and hope was something you had to steal. You— you speak of trauma like it’s a TED Talk. Like survival is a trend you tried on once for empathy’s sake. But some of us learned to tie...

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...