Poetry by Rowan Evans

You said you were possessive,
as if that would scare me—
as if I didn’t dream
of being claimed like territory
you’d fight wars over.

I don’t flinch when you growl.
I lean in.
Let your rage drag its claws
across my willing skin—
mark me with want,
not apology.

Tell me I’m yours
with that edge in your tone—
that fire that cracked
when you cursed his name.
I’d trade oxygen for that heat.
Let it burn me obedient.

Strict?
Good.
Guide me.
Break me down
only to rebuild me
in the shape of your rules.

I wasn’t meant for freedom.
I was meant to be yours.
A precious kind of captive
who begs for the chain
and calls it worship.

Possessiveness can be hot,
I said—
but it was more than that.
It was holy.
Sacred.
The way your jealousy flared
felt like you saw me,
wanted me,
enough to guard me
like I was treasure
too rare to risk losing.

So take me.
Flame and all.
Say “mine” like a command
and I’ll obey like scripture.
I am ready—
on my knees
in every way that matters.
Let devotion taste like ash,
and love feel like fire.
Just claim me, boss.
I was made to burn for you.