Adena M'lynn's Voice

A Spoken Word Poem on Self-Healing and Love Hi, my name is Adena… You’ve been broken, Adena.  You weren’t even aware of it— not at first, not when silence became your second skin, not when laughter sounded borrowed, not when trust felt like a stranger’s accent. Memories are a funny thing. They come like shadows, stretching long across the floor when the sun begins to set. They slip into the room when you’re not looking— a smell, a sound, a touch of air too heavy to name. And— here you are, Adena. Still breathing. Still searching the sky for shapes in the clouds. Still learning to call the cracks in your soul something other than weakness. You see, broken doesn’t mean ruined. Broken means you’ve survived the fall and carried every shard back home. Broken means you’ve rebuilt yourself in the image of courage, one trembling piece at a time. Love— not the kind written in sonnets, but the kind that sarts with your own reflection— is teaching you patience. It says:  Sit with yoursel...

  By Adena M’lynn I wore a paper bag like a second skin— not for fashion, but for forgetting. Two holes cut just wide enough to see the world but never let it see me. They said, “Look in the mirror, tell me what you see.” But I couldn’t bear to meet the eyes of a face I was told was too much, too broken, too wrong. The bag whispered safety. It muted the mirror’s judgment, blurred the lines between what I was and what they made me believe. It said, Shut-up, You’re not her. You’re not here. You’re not real. I learned to live through slits— narrow truths, fragmented days, a life filtered through what I thought they could handle. The paper absorbed my silence, soaked up the tears that never dared to fall in public, and crinkled with every movement— a rustling reminder that even hiding makes noise. Sometimes, I dream of setting that bag on fire. Of letting the smoke curl upward like a prayer, Make me whole— not perfect, just pieced back together with gentleness, not glue made of guilt. ...

“Petals and Thorns” By Adena M’lynn  Speak— but do so like walking through roses. Let your words be petals— soft, intentional, fragrant with truth and tremble. But don’t ignore the thorns. See them. Name them. They are sharp with history, barbed with shame, ready to bleed anyone who dares brush too close without armor. Still— we speak. We reach into the bramble and carve a path not just for ourselves but for the ones who come next. We don’t pretend the way is painless. We simply make it possible. So say it. Say it like a lantern in the dark, like petals laid over broken glass— a softness that says, You’re not alone. You can speak here too. Because healing is not the absence of thorns, but the courage to bloom anyway— and make the path clearer, safer, truer for the ones still waiting to find their voice in the garden.