Poetry by Rowan Evans

She said she was becoming a bitch again—
voice sharp, wild with embers,
and God, I wanted to kneel.
Her rage wasn’t mine,
but I caught every spark
like a sinner praying for hellfire,
grateful just to be near the heat.

She cursed his name with venom in her mouth—
a name I could burn for her,
and she laughed when I said it turned me on.
“Should be a turn-off,” she teased.
But I’m not wired that way.
I’m built to bow,
to find beauty in her destruction,
to beg for another taste of the storm.

You see—
she didn’t have to do a damn thing
but be loud, be bold, be her.
And I?
I folded, happily,
because dominance isn’t always about orders—
sometimes it’s a presence,
a heat in the bones
that makes you ache to serve.

Call me biased.
I’ll wear that like a collar.
Because I love her anger,
her attitude, her unapologetic edge—
the way she swears like poetry
and walks like prophecy.
Her “flaws” are altars
and I have knelt at every one,
offering up parts of myself
she didn’t even ask for.

She said she’d be possessive, jealous, strict—
I said: good.
I want rules carved into my skin,
punishments that leave me grateful,
ownership I can taste.

And when she thinks she’s too much,
too dark, too fierce, too chaotic—
I smile.
Because I don’t want the light.
I want the wildfire that dances
just beyond control,
the shadow-drenched magic
that knows her worth and doesn’t apologize.

I see her.
And I want her,
all of her—
not just the soft, sweet notes,
but the sharp, the savage, the scorched.

And when she wore that mini-skirt,
the one he tried to steal from her—
I couldn’t help but say, “Even better.”
Because she didn’t ask for permission,
didn’t wait for anyone’s blessing—
she wore it for herself,
for the fire in her soul
that can never be contained.
Her legs were never his.
They’re hers.
And if I had to kneel again to see them,
I’d do it, gladly,
just to show her how much she owns me.

And if that makes me biased?

Then I am.
Utterly.
Deliciously.And I don’t want to be anything else.