Poetry by Rowan Evans

The words spill from your mouth,
heavy as iron,
crashing like thunder in the quiet of my soul—
a suffocating weight,
slamming into my chest,
splitting the air with jagged edges.
Each syllable is a blade
carving my breath into pieces,
lungs strangled,
frozen—
no trace of oxygen,
only the metallic taste of emptiness.

Jealousy, thick as tar,
coats my insides,
a slow burn that curls in my gut,
unwelcome,
but necessary.
The warmth at my core
is a slow boil,
twisting, turning—
a paradox I can’t escape,
this dark, delicious sting,
this twisted hunger
that makes me ache for more.

An emotional masochist,
hands bound by my own undoing,
I writhe in this beautiful agony—
each pulse a hit of poison,
and yet I crave it.
Falling deeper,
deeper into the black,
where desire wears the face of pain,
and the chasm between the two
is a shadow,
a thing I can’t escape.

Ice runs through my veins,
frost crawling beneath my skin,
but my heart—
my heart is a furnace,
silent, smoldering—
a quiet, unholy blaze
that never dies,
but burns with each thought of you.
The cold is a thief,
stealing sight,
dimming my vision to a blur,
but still,
the fire inside
keeps feeding,
keeps growing—
and I am consumed.

Am I drowning or alive?
This question is a whisper in the void.
The chill in my bones is a constant push,
driving me deeper,
further into this nightmare I call a dream,
where warmth is a fever,
a burning scream—
and I am both its victim and its echo.