Poetry by Rowan Evans

Author’s Note

Some love is written in whispers, some in roars. Some love challenges you, confounds you, makes you question everything you thought you knew about desire, trust, and devotion. This piece is for that kind of love—the kind that doesn’t ask for perfection, but for honesty. The kind that turns what the world sees as flaws into the most beautiful invitations, the most sacred of green lights.

It’s about seeing someone fully, leaning in when others might run, and finding that the very things that could push you away are the things you are drawn to most. These are the red flags that are secretly green, the chaos that feels like home, the complexity that makes your heart stretch wide enough to hold another soul.

Read it as confession. Read it as celebration. Read it as a permission slip for intimacy, wildness, and trust.

Green Flags in Disguise
Poetry by Rowan Evans
(Written April 29th, 2025)

You laid your cards down one by one—
Red flags, you called them.
Warnings.
Not to scare me off,
just to see if I’d run.
I didn’t. I leaned in.

“Anger issues?”
You’ve been gaslit, babe—
called volatile for daring to feel
in a world that only makes room
for men to explode.
But your rage? It’s sacred fire.
I’d build temples in the ashes.
That’s not a flaw. That’s clarity.
Every time you cursed “idiot,”
my heart stuttered with how right it felt.
Why is this so attractive?
Call me weird—
But everything you thought made you unlovable
is exactly what I love.

“Paranoia?”
Please. I get it.
You’ve been betrayed by the hands that held you.
I’ve lived the same kind of quiet, twitching dread.
So if you need to ask questions twice, or ten times—
ask.
I won’t judge.
I’ll just stay.

“Possessive?”
Yes, please.
Own me.
Call me yours with your whole chest.
Claim every piece of me with teeth and intent.
I won’t run—I’ll beg for more.
Mark me. Mold me.
Make me forget who I was
before I belonged to you.

“Jealous?”
God, it’s hot.
Not the petty kind, not the toxic kind—
The kind that says you matter to me so much it scares me.
I wouldn’t ever give you a reason to doubt.
But if I slipped up…
I’d want to be punished.
Yes, I’m that kind of submissive.

“Strict?”
Say less.
Tell me what to do.
Correct me when I misstep.
Guide me with that edge in your voice—
the one that makes my knees forget how to be knees.
I was made for this.
For you.

“Unpredictable?”
That’s not a red flag.
That’s spontaneity.
That’s adventure.
That’s yes, let’s burn the script and make our own.
You bring the chaos—I’ll bring the trust.

“A bitch at times?”
Be one more.
Be unapologetic.
Be brutal when it calls for it.
The world tried to tame you.
Let me be the one who tells you not to flinch.
Your sharpness is beautiful.
Cut me, and I’ll bleed loyalty.

“Sarcastic?”
Perfect.
Fluent in sarcasm.
It’s our dialect now.
Trade jabs with me until it turns to kisses.
Be wicked with your words—I’ll turn them into poems.

“A little selfish?”
Good. Be selfish.
Take what you want.
You deserve that, and more.
You deserve someone who doesn’t flinch when you demand,
someone who smiles when you dominate.

You want a submissive partner?
I’m kneeling already.
You just didn’t notice.
Every “yes, ma’am,”
every “tell me what you need”—
That was me offering myself on a velvet platter.
And I’ll keep offering,
if you’ll keep taking.

“A little sadist?”
Your nails, your teeth, your whispered sins—
I crave them.
I want your bite to outlast the bruises.
I want your darkness to stretch its limbs across me
until I can’t tell where I end and you begin.

“Loves darkness?”
Darling.
I was born in it, too.
We don’t have to be afraid of each other’s shadows.
We light them.

So no.
I don’t see red.
I see you.

And maybe I’m colorblind—
maybe I’ve got protanomaly, babe—
because all I see is green.
Green like go.
Green like yes.
Green like marry me.
Yeah, I said it.

I know you’ll probably get smug,
or tease me,
or roast the hell out of me for this—
but I’m ready.

Test me again.
I’ll pass.
Every time.

Suggested Reads

[My Red Flags] — A Dark Romance Poem About Loving the Dangerous
“You told me you had anger issues. But I’ve only seen you furious in defense—a saint of righteous fire.”

‘My Red Flags’ is a confession disguised as a love spell. In this dark romantic poem, Rowan Evans turns every warning sign into worship—an ode to danger, devotion, and the art of loving without fear of burning.

If you would like to check out more of my work, you can find it here in the archives: The Library of Ashes