Adena M'lynn's Voice

  by Adena M’lynn I didn’t learn to lie from a liar’s academy. I learned to lie from the people who demanded truth— the ones who looked me in the face and said, “Tell me what happened,” then flinched when I actually did. See, the truth I carried wasn’t dressed for guests. It didn’t come in tidy sentences or soft colors. It came in bruised shapes and late night shadows and footsteps that didn’t belong in a child’s room. So when I handed it over— small hands open, voice shaking— they recoiled. “No. That’s not true. Stop lying.” And that’s the moment a child becomes a scientist— experimenting with stories the way other kids try on shoes in the back of Gibson’s store on a Saturday afternoon. Does this one fit? No? Too big? Too scary? Too close to the thing you don’t want to believe? Okay… try another. This one? Too small? Not believable enough? Try again. So I learned quickly, the truth wasn’t what happened. The truth was whatever made adults say, “Okay.” Whatever let them exhale. What...

Some people say life is like a box of chocolates— silky choices, soft centers, surprises wrapped in gold foil like blessing after blessing waiting to be unwrapped. But me? My life… my life is more like a dollar-store pack of cherry sours. Yeah— those bright red, round little lies that look sweet at first glance, glassed-over in sugar like they came from a childhood dream. You pick one up, thinking  finally — this one’s gonna be good. This one’s gonna melt sweet on the tongue, go down easy, be the kind of comfort you don’t have to brace yourself for. And the first one? Oh, the first one never misses. It hits you with that candy-coated promise— that  this  time, this moment, this chapter might actually be soft. That maybe the world has finally decided to taste like kindness. So you crave another. Another little red candleball to light up the dark with sugar and hope. But the next one? That next bite? It betrays you. Sour. Sharp. Like a memory you thought you swallowed years...