Poetry by Rowan Evans

A little bit Batman, a little bit Joker—
guess you can call me the Bat Who Laughs,
stitched from trauma and rebellion,
where cape meets chaos,
and pain becomes performance.

A hero, a villain… neither.
I’m the flicker between the two,
a soul held hostage by contrast—
one half cloaked in justice,
the other craving oblivion’s grin.

They see the cowl, the calm—
but not the mirror I cracked at thirteen,
when my mind split like Wayne’s pearls,
shattering into silence and survival.
I learned to build walls from Batcave blueprints,
armor forged in fear,
gadgets disguised as coping skills.

But the laughter came later—
sharp, jarring, Joker-born.
The way I smiled while crumbling.
The way I made art from agony.
Some days, my thoughts are painted like his smile—
too wide, too raw,
hiding the razor’s edge behind a joke.

I am Two-Face in spirit—
hope on one side, hurt on the other.
The coin never lands.
It spins forever in my chest,
each revolution whispering,
“You’re too much… not enough… pick a side.”

But I can’t.
I am both.
All.
None.

Scarecrow lingers in my dreams—
my anxiety dressed in burlap,
feeding me fear through IVs of doubt.
I’ve lived in Arkham without bars,
each locked door named Dysphoria, Panic, Isolation.
Each scream, a therapy session no one heard.

Some days, I am the asylum—
haunted halls echoing with unspoken names.
Other days, I’m Oracle—
broken spine, still fighting,
my voice a lifeline to others lost in the dark.

And yes, I’ve loved like Ivy—
wild, tangled, misunderstood.
Tried to bloom in poisoned soil.
Tried to make something beautiful from ruin.
I’ve felt like Harley—
laughing too loud,
loving too hard,
breaking in the shape of someone else’s gaze.

Red Hood rages where my sorrow used to sit.
Nightwing hope fights to stay upright.
But Batman?
He’s the mask I wore for years—
stoic, silent, pretending not to feel.
I thought if I was strong enough,
I’d earn the right to survive.
To be loved.

But now I know—
strength isn’t silence.
It’s confession.
It’s crying in the cave.
It’s kissing your chaos
and saying: You’re part of me, too.

There’s a little Constantine in me—
cursed and clever,
using magic to distract from the scars.
A little Raven—
emotions bound in shadow,
power barely leashed.
A lot of Zatanna—
saying the words backwards,
hoping the spell finally heals what reality won’t.

You ask who I am?
I am the comic that bleeds between genres.
I am queer-coded courage,
autistic empathy in a world that demands apathy.
I am the villain in someone’s story,
the hero in my own.
I am transition and transformation,
each hormone a resurrection,
each truth a sharpened Batarang
thrown at the lies they fed me.

You love my light,
but will you stay for my shadow?
Will you kiss the chaos in my grin,
hold the wreckage in my ribcage,
and see the beauty in my backstory?

Because I am not cured.
I am not clean.
I am not safe in the ways the world wants me to be.
But I am alive.
Still here.
Still fighting.
Still laughing.

A little bit Batman, a little bit Joker—
guess you can call me the Bat Who Laughs.
But know this—
behind the madness is meaning.
Behind the costume is courage.
Behind the duality…
is me.