Poetry by Rowan Evans

I’m done, fuck love—
I’ve slammed that door,
closed the gates on every hope I once held
like soft promises in trembling hands.
I’ve bent, I’ve broken,
I’ve played the part of the fixer,
only to find the cracks in me
are too deep to mend.

I was always the one to patch the gaps,
solder the empty spaces with gold and silver,
my fingers stained with the remnants
of others’ brokenness—
but now,
I can’t carry the weight anymore.
My back is too worn,
my heart too fragile.

I gave,
and gave,
and gave,
like a cracked fountain with nothing left to spill.
And for what?
To watch pieces of myself scatter
like sand slipping through broken glass,
no matter how tight I tried to hold.

Love?
It’s a cold thing,
a lie that whispers only to break,
to tear,
to leave you shattered on the floor
of your own creation.

I see my reflection in the fractured glass,
a thousand shards of who I was
before love twisted me—
I was whole once,
but now,
I am nothing but repair work,
a patchwork soul trying to hold itself together
with threads of silence and scars.

Fuck love—
it’s a thief that steals until nothing’s left,
but a hollow shell.
And I’m done playing the part of the one who fixes it all.