Poetry by Rowan Evans

I want to carve him open
like a bleeding winter sky—
veins of anger spilling dark ink across his chest,
a map of rage
etched in his flesh.
Each breath he draws
a prayer for release.
But he will not be forgiven.
Not until I’ve stolen his soul
in the slowest, sweetest fashion.

The air tastes of iron
as my hands tighten,
wrapping around his throat—
a noose made of broken promises,
of shattered trust.
I am the storm
and he is the calm
I will tear apart.

His skin, a canvas for my fury,
will be stained with the brushstrokes
of what he’s done.
And in the final moments,
I’ll press my smile into his fading eyes,
as his heart beats its last,
a rhythm in time with my pleasure.

I am the predator,
the reaper disguised as a lover.
And he?
Just a puppet,
strung up by his own cruelty,waiting to be unmade.