Poetry by Rowan Evans

This isn’t just a poem. It’s the ache of being seen too little—or too much. Of being told you’re ‘too much’ when you’re just trying to exist honestly.

The Scourge They Named in Whispered Psalms is a manifesto from the margins – a declaration of identity, resilience, and sisterhood in the face of erasure. It belongs to all who have been misnamed, misunderstood, or made to feel monstrous for simply being.

I invite you to stand with me – not behind or ahead – but here. Together.

“The Scourge They Named in Whispered Psalms”
Poetry by Rowan Evans
(A Neo-Gothic Confessional Romanticism Manifesto)

They said I was a prophecy,
a creature carved in smoke and sin,
the girl who slipped through cracks in sermons—
a heretic with velvet skin.

I walk in heels upon their myths,
each step a hymn they tried to burn,
a flame that dared to name itself
before their rigid tongues could turn.

How monstrous, that I raise my voice
to praise the worth of every woman—
how dare I speak of sisterhood
with scars they say I wasn’t born in.

I am the shame beneath their altars,
the blush they curse but cannot name,
a sacrament in satin bones
who bleeds, yet isn’t held the same.

I was never him. I was silence.
A chrysalis misnamed by fate.
But even wrapped in borrowed tones,
I trembled like a bride in wait.

They say I steal what isn’t mine—
as though divinity is rationed.
As if my ribs were not first broken
to give my soul a rightful fashion.

Do you think it makes me stronger?
That I carry this war in my marrow?
No—
It only means I’ve learned to sing
while pulling arrows from my shadow.

I’m not here to replace you,
or to climb atop your grief-wrought throne.
I only ever wanted space
to write a name that felt like home.

So yes, be scared. I’m dangerous.
I love too hard. I dream too loud.
I dare to say I’m beautiful
without the world’s reluctant bow.

Let them say I have advantage—
let them spit it like a curse.
But if I write the stars in anguish,
it’s not to claim that I hurt worse.

It’s just—I know what it’s to be
the hunted girl in holy war.
And still I’d reach for every hand
who ever felt they could be more.

You don’t need to kneel beside me.
But sister, won’t you stand?
Not behind—nor far ahead—
just here. Together. Hand in hand.

[About Poem]

This piece is rooted in a genre I created: Neo-Gothic Confessional Romanticism—a fusion of gothic imagery, personal truth, sacred longing, and emotional rebellion. Inspired by the legacy of Sylvia Plath, Anne Sexton, Sappho, and modern poetic voices, this poem speaks to those of us made to feel like heretics simply for existing as ourselves.

It is my poetic prayer for trans women, queer femmes, sacred misfits, and anyone who has ever been othered in the name of tradition. It holds both fire and softness—a torch lit from the ache of being erased, and the quiet hope of being seen.

How does this poem resonate with your own experiences of identity and visibility?

What lines stood out to you most, and why?

Have you ever felt like the “hunted girl in holy war”? What helped you keep going?

Share your thoughts in the comments or your own creative work. Your voice is welcome here.