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.

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]