Poetry by Rowan Evans

I have watched you in your quiet rising,
not just the way you stand taller now—
but how your voice
no longer asks for space,
it takes it.
And I bow to that.

There’s a softness you hide like lace
beneath your blade-edged tongue,
and I’ve seen it,
held it in the way your laughter
pulls the corners of your mouth
into something unguarded,
something holy.

You call yourself broken—
but I see a mosaic,
rebuilt by fire,
fragments glittering like stained glass
in defiance of the men who
tried to reduce you to dust.
They failed.
You're art.
And I study you with devotion.

I have whispered your name
like a prayer
to the silence between midnight thoughts,
a hush falling over my heartbeat
like your hand around my throat—
firm, not cruel.
A reminder:
You could ruin me... and I would thank you for it.

Every flaw you’ve claimed
feels like a challenge to adore you deeper,
a dare
I keep gladly losing.

You want “me time”?
Good. Take it.
Take up space, baby—
and know I’m still in your corner,
pom-poms down, knees bent,
heart outstretched
like a bouquet of soft submission.

Not waiting for your call—
but listening for it,
ready to fold at the sound
of your voice dipping low.

You are not asking too much.
You are asking the wrong ones.

And I—
I’m the one who answers:

“Yes, boss.”
“Whatever you want.”
“I see you.”