Adena M'lynn's Voice

Inspired by life events.  B y Adena M’lynn What’s the difference between healing and controlling the pain? See— one looks like breathing, the other looks like holding your breath until your face turns blue. One says: Let the wound bleed, let the scar form, let the body remember what it survived. The other says: Cover it quick, hide the blood, swallow the hurt with another pill, another prayer, another promise. Pain wrapped in panaceas, wrapped in bandages too tight, wrapped in silence that chokes more than it comforts. Healing whispers, This hurts now, but it will not hurt forever. Control shouts, This must not hurt, not now, not ever. Healing is messy. It stains sheets, ruins dinners, makes you cry in parking lots. Control is polished. It smiles in photographs, pastes on affirmations, clenches fists under tables. And me? I’ve tried both. I’ve drowned the ache in pill bottles, stuffed it down with lies, called the covering  strength when really it was surrender. I’ve also ripp...

  Inspired through being loved, I learned that even in silence and closed doors, agape lingers as gratitude and learning “trust.” ~Adena M’lynn Why do you haunt my mind? I thought silence would be the cure, thought that if I blocked you, I could finally breathe again. But every time, my trembling finger hovered over the button, I’d undo it— because love isn’t built to erase. Your smile— it ambushes me. In laughter I wasn’t expecting, in words as small as chigger, in texts that should remained unwritten — and suddenly there, like a kindness that refuses to die, “hiiii”. I don’t understand why I had to do the very thing that hurt you— lie. I never wanted to be the one to crack the fragile glass of trust. My heart breaks as I say this: I never wanted harm to carry my name. But my name has too often stood for  pain. You— you were the mirror that showed me how my actions ripple outwards. You taught me that kindness isn’t an idea, it’s a practice. That love— the real kind, the agape...

 by Adena M’lynn I wasn’t born with an asterisk, but I should’ve been. Right there on the birth certificate— next to weight, length, time of arrival— a tiny * curled like a warning label, a whisper that says, subject to harm. survival may resemble defiance. terms and conditions may apply. Nobody tells you the first scream you let out might echo for decades. That the cradle isn’t always safer than the storm, and sometimes love comes with latex gloves and non-disclosure agreements. I didn’t read the fine print. Didn’t know “you’re so mature for your age” was code for, *we’ll exploit you and call it a compliment. Didn’t see the clause that read, *this child will become fluent in apology, even for things that weren’t her fault. Didn’t realize the survival skills— those sharp-edged gifts she carved from trauma— would one day be criminalized. Would send her straight to hell, to prison, where she’d be taught how to bury pain like it was contraband, taught to catalog her hurt like inventor...