Poetry by Rowan Evans

Author’s Note

There’s a difference between what’s happening now… and what your body remembers.

Sometimes the hardest part of connection isn’t the other person–it’s everything that came before them.

The learned reactions. The instinct to pull away. The quiet voice that says this will go wrong too, even when there’s no real evidence that it will.

This piece comes from that space.

From recognizing the difference between someone who is safe… and the echoes of people who weren’t.

And from the understanding that healing isn’t just knowing the truth–

it’s about teaching your instincts to believe it.

— Rowan Evans

Not Her—The Echoes
Poetry by Rowan Evans

I have a simple question
I keep asking myself—
why do you hide?

When you want connection,
why stay inside?

You want to reach out,
but you stay in your mind.

Why?

Well,
the truth is—
I hide to protect myself.

It’s what I learned
worked for me.

When someone
feels too close,
I retreat.

I used to open up,
be vulnerable.
I would share
my internal world—

then it was used
against me.

That’s tragic—
but she didn’t do it.

I know that.
You think I don’t know that?

I’m well aware
she wasn’t the one.

That’s what makes this so hard.

I’m fighting habit,
instinct—
and I don’t say that
to be dramatic.

I’m not running from her.

I’m running from echoes—
old shadows wearing new faces,
old wounds pretending
to be present danger.

I know she isn’t them.
I know she isn’t the hands
that taught me silence.

But instinct doesn’t ask permission.

It just pulls the alarm,
slams the door,
locks the ribs
around the heart

before I can say,
“wait… this is different.”

I’m not hiding from her.

I’m hiding from the memory
of being punished
for being real.

And unlearning that—
is its own kind of bravery.

If you’re interested in more poetry, you can find it here → [The Library of Ashes]