Adena M'lynn's Voice

It starts with the curve— a crescent umoon painted across a tired face. The kind of light that doesn’t come from stars, but from habit. People say, “what a beautiful smile .” They don’t see the scaffolding beneath it —  how heavy steel can bend when the soul’s foundation is cracked. It’s a mask , but not for deceit. It’s survival. A small, trembling flag in the middle of a storm . The teeth shine but the tongue hides— words swallowed, tears disguised as laughter . Sometimes the corners ache, like old wounds stitched too tight. But I keep wearing it. Because if I take it off, someone might see the hollow. And hollows are hard to explain when the world prefers a smile.

“The Actor” By Adena M’lynn Project Lesson - 37  Format Template: Spoken Word YouTube @adenamlynnharmon  I convinced myself I was an actor. Not a mask—no. Not the thin plastic Halloween kind, but a real actor. One who can change like a chameleon before your very eyes. Watch me— I can bend the corners of my mouth into something that resembles joy. I can let my eyes shimmer just enough to convince you I’m alive… to convince me I’m alive. Oh, but don’t let her show too much vulnerability. No, no— just enough to keep you leaning forward in your seat, just enough to make you question your own willingness to offer me help. Because what if you did? What if you reached out, and found the stage lights burning you too? So I give you a performance— a tragedy rewritten as comedy, a pain disguised as plot twist, a sorrow packaged with perfect timing. Clap! She enters. Cue the applause! But here’s the thing nobody tells you about acting, The most dangerous role is the one where you forget y...

“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.

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 ...

Prison, for all its harshness, became a kind of refuge—a sacred ground born from shared suffering. Behind the walls, among the clamor and control, lived a quiet truth: most of the women there were not just inmates, but survivors—survivors of some of the worst atrocities. Nearly 85% carried the scars of violence, much of it rooted in childhood, etched deep into bone and memory. Shame ran through them like blood—unspoken, but ever-present. And yet, in that broken place, something unexpected emerged: sisterhood. A space where tenderness was rare but deeply craved. Where being seen—truly seen—and heard without judgment became its own kind of healing. Prison isn’t just steel and concrete. It’s a suspended world where time slows and pain echoes. Every mistake becomes a splinter driven deeper under the nail. And your name—your past—follows you like a shadow so heavy, few dare to reach for you. But within that shadow, there are women who hold one another up. And somehow, that makes even the da...