Adena M'lynn's Voice

There’s a pill for that— tiny, chalk-white, a promise pressed into her palm. She eats her hallucinations whole, swallowing shadows until her throat tastes like ghosts. She’s tired. Bone-tired. Tired of the static buzzing in the corners of her mind, tired of her name echoing back at her like a warning. She’s tried everything— kindness, (well, sort of), tight smiles and tighter lips, praising instead of pleading, restraining her hunger until her ribs rattle like a cage. Restricting her wants, minimizing her desires, folding herself smaller and smaller like a prescription slip she can’t afford to fill. And still, the noise comes back. The ache returns. The smell hits her first when the bottle cracks open— a sharp, chemical sting that clings to her fingertips. Then the taste— coating her tongue, like souring guts turning inside her, a bitterness that even water can’t drown. The pills line up wheat fields on her nightstand, each one promising a softer silence that never lasts. She wonders i...

Every morning, I pull in They tell me, just keep going, like I’m some truck stop cowboy with an endless road stretched out in neon lines. But mental illness— it ain’t a smooth ride. It’s a gas can strapped to my back, sloshing heavy with fumes that choke before they fuel. Every morning, I pull into the station, coin jar empty, pockets turned inside out, yet they say, filler-up and roll on. So I siphon from yesterday’s pain, pouring it into today’s tank, driving on borrowed fire that burns more than it moves me. Sometimes the gauge lies. Reads full when I’m bone dry, reads empty when I’m blazing. Either way, I’m stranded on a shoulder where hope is just another car that passes by without stopping. Mental illness is the gas you can’t afford, the tank that leaks slow but steady, the smell that sticks to your hands long after you’ve washed them clean. And the diesel— thick in the air, always a reminder that “fuel” and “funeral” share the same breath. Still I grab the nozzle, fumble with sh...

When a house burns down, the fire is not just flame. It is the law, the decree, the invisible match struck by hands that never walked our floors, never sat at our tables, never heard our stories. When a house burns down, it is not only timber that collapses, but the rhythm of mornings— the smell of tortillas warming, the father’s boots by the door, the child’s backpack leaning on the wall waiting for tomorrow. But tomorrow does not come, because tomorrow is held hostage by paperwork and borders. When a house burns down, it is not the fire alone that robs us, but the separation it enforces: a mother left behind, a father taken away, children holding photographs like fire extinguishers too small to save what matters. When a house burns down, neighbors come running with buckets, but no one can douse the flames of policy. No one can smother the crackle of absence that eats through generations. When a house burns down, questions rise in the smoke, Who decides whose love is legal? Who counts...

 In class Thursday evening, we explored how silence can be both a comfort and a cage. We talked about how spoken word gives us permission to let the quiet places inside us speak out loud. From that discussion, this piece was born. It’s called “Rust in the Silence”— a reminder that even the words we bury, the truths we try to swallow, will find their way out. And when they do, they don’t come out polished.  One of my greatest inspirations,  Maya Angelou, once wrote of a caged bird that sings—not because it is free, but because song is the only way the spirit can break beyond the bars. This piece was born from that same truth. My silence was not golden; it was rust—corroding, pressing, weighing me down until my voice clawed its way back. Rust in the Silence is a reminder that even the words we bury, the truths we try to swallow, will find their way out. And when they do, they don’t come out polished—they come out jagged, trembling, and real. “Rust in the Silence” They told ...

Scripture tells us in  Micah 6:8 ,  ‘What does the Lord require of you? To act justly and to love mercy and to walk humbly with your God.’ And in  Ephesians 4:31-32 ,  ‘Get rid of all bitterness, rage and anger, brawling and slander, along with every form of malice. Be kind and compassionate to one another, forgiving each other, just as in Christ God forgave you.’ Clearly— this is not about white or Black. It’s not about red states or blue states. It’s not about MAGA or Democrat. It’s not even just an American thing. This is a message for anyone willing to listen, anyone willing to read, anyone willing to face the truth, “Humanity itself demands us to act in ways that heal.” Are we through with our destructive voices? Are we done with dismissive acts against one another? Or will we keep breaking what was meant to be whole? Because if not now, then when? If not ME, then who? Imagine if you will,  Imagine another way. We dare to stop what divides us and begin what...