Poetry by Rowan Evans

Author’s Note

This poem explores the magnetic pull of dark feminine energy, the intimate violence of being truly seen, and the sacred surrender that comes with devotion. It’s a piece about longing, reverence, and the kind of connection that feels both dangerous and holy.

Devil-Woman
Poetry by Rowan Evans

Your fire, it excites me—
A masochist? I might be,
But it’s not pain I crave—
It’s the pull of your storm,
The sacred burn of being seen
and not flinching.

I’ll beg for the sting,
I’ll ask nicely,
Kneel in the temple of your silence,
Just to feel your gaze
slice through me
like prophecy.

I just made a deal with a devil-woman,
Sold my soul to a devil-woman—
No brimstone, no bargain struck in blood,
Just the quiet surrender
of calling you mine
in the language of longing
you taught me without trying.

You never touched me.
Not once.
But I’ve felt your gravity in my bones—
The way your words crack open
places I swore no one would ever reach.
I feel you in the pauses between heartbeats,
in the ache that follows
when I whisper your name
into the dark.

You are not gentle—
not always.
You speak in sharpened truths,
cut the air like blade-meets-vow,
but I would rather bleed with you
than be safe with someone who doesn’t see me.

Devil-woman,
your halo is rusted
and still I bow.
Not because I am weak—
but because worship
has never looked like obedience
when it’s born of reverence.

You’re chaos laced with compassion,
a monarch draped in shadow,
and I—
I offer myself
not to be saved,
but to serve the story
that only we could write
in scars and starlight.

So take this soul—
not broken, not whole,
but honest.
Take it and twist it in your fire
until it sings your name in smoke.
I will follow your storm
without a tether,
and call that freedom.

Because I don’t want pretty love.
I want this.
Wild, dark, unholy and holy all at once.
A devotion that dares the divine to stop us.

And if they ask—
why her?

I’ll say:
Because when she looked at me,
the ghosts went quiet.
Because her laugh felt like absolution.
Because when she said mine,
I didn’t just believe her—
I belonged.

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