Poetry by Rowan Evans

Author’s Note

This poem is not about wanting to die.
It is about learning how to survive long before learning how to live.

Since I Was Thirteen (Fluent in Survival)
Poetry by Rowan Evans

I feel like I’m lost,
I’m wandering.
Twisted thoughts,
I’m pondering.

My demise
in a life I despise.
It’s not that I want to die—
I’m just tired
of trying to survive.

I want to be happy.
I’m alive.

But my head
is so full of dread—
every morning
a negotiation
just to get out of bed.

Body feels heavy,
limbs lagging—
everything moves
in slow-motion.

Slipping into shadows—
going home.
The light has never felt like mine.
I was born in the shadows,
raised in the shade.
Darkness has been
my mindscape—
since I was thirteen.

I learned early
how to make myself small—
how to soften my footsteps
inside my own head.

I memorized the weight of silence,
learned which thoughts were safe to keep
and which ones
needed to stay buried.

Survival became a second language,
spoken fluently,
even when no one was listening.

I say I’m alive
like it’s a defense—
like survival
should be enough.

But living
feels like something other people do
without rehearsing it first.

Closing Note

I wrote this for anyone who learned survival before they learned safety.
For those who are still here, even when “alive” feels like a negotiation.
You are not failing — you are fluent in something the world never taught gently.

For more poetry, check out the archives: [The Library of Ashes]