becoming yourself – Poetry by Rowan Evans

Author’s Note

This piece lives in a space between two interpretations, and I wrote it that way on purpose.

It can be read as a reflection on identity–on the versions of ourselves we carry, the ones we’ve been, and ones we hesitate to become. A room filled with selves, each one shaped by different choices, different fears, different moments of almost.

But it can also be read as something more relational. The figure in the piece–“her”–can exist as a person. Someone who feels steady, certain, present in a way the speaker isn’t yet. Someone who becomes a point of gravity.

What matters to me is that the distance between them comes from the same place in both readings.

Not circumstance.

Not timing.

But hesitation.

In that way, the poem sits in the overlap between becoming and connection–where reaching someone else and becoming yourself start to feel like the same act.

— Rowan Evans

Multiple versions of a person standing in a dim surreal room with a distant glowing figure symbolizing identity and connection — *A room full of who I was, who I am, and who I haven’t learned to be yet.*

Standing Between Us
Poetry by Rowan Evans

I walk into a room
that knows my name too well.

It is filled with me—
not reflections,
not mirrors—
but selves.

They stand where I once stood,
breathe how I used to breathe,
hold their hands like I remember doing
before I knew why.

Some look at me.
Most don’t.

They are not ghosts—
not quite.
I cannot see through them.
They have weight.
Presence.
Like memories
that never learned how to fade.

I move through them anyway.

Shoulder brushing shoulder—
past brushing present—
future turning its head
just a second too late.

And then—

her.

Not fully seen.
Never fully seen.

A glimpse
between the space
of two mistakes,
I used to make.

A flicker
caught in the outline
of who I used to be
and who I might become.

I follow.

Or maybe I orbit.

Because every time I get close,
another version of me steps in the way—
hesitation given form,
fear with a body,
longing wearing my face.

I want to call out—
but which voice is mine?

They all sound like me.

So I keep moving.

Through regret.
Through almosts.
Through the selves that loved—
too early,
too late…

too quietly.

And still—
I see her.

Soft.
Certain.
Waiting in the space
I haven’t learned to stand in yet.

I think—

no.

I know.

She is not lost in this room.

I am.

And every version of me
that I refuse to become
is standing between us.

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

Author’s Note

With my birthday approaching, I found myself walking down memory lane—whether I wanted to or not. Birthdays have a way of doing that. They pull you backward through moments you thought were buried, faces you once trusted, versions of yourself you barely recognize anymore.

This piece came from that forced reflection: tracing where I started, who I opened my heart to, what broke me, and how I learned to survive by drifting instead of healing. It’s about the memories that arrive uninvited, the lessons learned too late, and the quiet realization that growth isn’t always graceful.

I’m not writing this from a place of resolution—just awareness. This is me taking inventory of the pieces that built me, the scars that shaped me, and the distance between who I was and who I’m becoming.

Sometimes looking back isn’t about regret. Sometimes it’s about understanding how you’re still standing.

Misty cobblestone street at night with glowing street lamps, symbolizing reflection, memory, and emotional healing. — *Walking memory lane—where every light holds a name, and every shadow remembers.*

Memory Lane Has No Exit
Poetry by Rowan Evans

I’ve been trapped inside my mind
for a while now.
I was wandering along
memory lane,
going over
everything.

Street lamps line
cobblestone streets,
each one named
after a time
or place.

I feel the mist
of missed
opportunities,
brush across
my face.
Reminding me
of things
I wish
I would have said.

I feel the electro—
static shock,
as it climbs
up my spine.
Until it touches
the base of my mind,
and every memory
floods back.

Every loss, every victory faced—
every blame misplaced,
baseless claim, just to tear me down.
Every time I opened up,
and they vanished—
Poof! No ghost,
left me unhaunted.
Then they taunted,
what the fuck—

I told her things
I never shared,
she said she cared,
that she was there.
Twisted words,
like a knife in my back—
used every secret shared
against me,
every word, a weapon it became.

I guess that’s why I faded…
Drifted… never looking for attachment.
I put my head in the clouds,
took to the sky. I’m Peter Pan,
I never landed.

Well, I guess I never healed.
Not truly. Guess I just became,
a little unruly. Hard headed,
too stubborn to see.
I wasn’t healing, not really.

And just as I pull back,
from that—
another memory attacks.
Flies in
from out of nowhere,
hits me in the face
and suddenly,
I’m back in that place.

Nineteen.
I thought she was a queen,
with her eyes of green.
Serene, until I saw the rot underneath.
Twenty-one.
I fell for her, or so I thought
and she said she felt the same.
And then she called me
by his name.

At twenty-four,
there was more.
A girl that I adored—
thought we were
moving toward
something.
We talked a lot,
so I opened up.
I thought I was safe,
but she pulled back,
and disappeared.

Two weeks.
I didn’t hear a peep.
Then the messages started,
secrets shared in confidence.
She told them all,
and felt no guilt.

It was from—
these pieces,
I was built.

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

Poetry by Rowan Evans

Tag: becoming yourself

Standing Between Us | Identity & Love Poem

Walking Memory Lane Before My Birthday | A Poem About Healing, Loss, and Becoming