Poetry by Rowan Evans

Author’s Note

This Is Confession is one of those pieces that arrives when I’ve stopped trying to be poetic and instead let myself be honest. It’s less a poem and more a moment of emotional transparency—an admission pulled straight from the chest rather than crafted on the page.

I have a habit of writing around the things I feel most deeply, hiding truth between metaphors or reshaping it into imagery so it feels safer. This time, I didn’t want safety. I wanted clarity. I wanted to name the weight and tenderness of caring for someone quietly, intensely, without performance or pretense.

Sometimes the most frightening thing we can do is say something plainly.
Sometimes the bravest thing is letting the truth stand without armor.

This piece is that bravery for me.

— Rowan Evans

This Is Confession
Poetry by Rowan Evans

I’ve done this once before,
but this isn’t poetry…
This—
this is confession.

This is me spilling my guts
in ink-carved words.
Even on the days we don’t talk,
you’re still at the forefront of my thoughts.
Your name lingers on the tip
of my tongue.
You’re my favorite topic—
not to sound too obsessive.

But even obsession feels too small a word
for the way my thoughts orbit you.

You’re the gravity I return to,
even on the days I swear I’m drifting.
Some names echo—
yours resonates.

I don’t know when it happened,
but somewhere between your laughter
and your pain,
I started carrying pieces of you
like they were my own.

I kept it quiet.
I didn’t say a thing.

Not because I’m ashamed,
but because admitting it feels like stepping
into a room lit only by truth—
and truth has never been gentle with me.

It’s always been the same:
people take what they want from me—
then they leave.
Or they leave the moment I open up,
start to spill my guts, just a little—
when I get a little too real,
too much,
too feel.

Two truths and a lie…
The truth is—
I’ve always cared more than I should,
and I’ve always been better at hurting myself
than disappointing anyone else.

The lie is pretending
I don’t feel all of this
every time you cross my mind.

Because the truth is—
you do.
Every day.
In ways I don’t admit out loud,
in ways I fold quietly
between the lines of every poem
I swear isn’t about you.

And maybe this is reckless,
maybe this is too much—
but confession was never meant
to be safe.

It was meant to be honest.
And honestly?
I’d spill every last secret I have
if it meant you’d understand
even a fraction
of how deeply
you live in me.

Looking for more poetry? You can find it all in the Library of Ashes.