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Poetry by Rowan Evans

Tag: Brokenness

  • Kintsugi Our Souls Together | Love Poem for the Ruined, the Rising, the Reverent

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This is for the broken and the rising. For the ones who have loved through scars, and shone through shadow. Kintsugi Our Souls Together is a love letter to the beauty in brokenness—and the gold that binds us when we choose to mend, together.

    Illustration of two broken figures repaired with gold veins, floating among stars, representing cosmic love and healing.
    Kintsugi souls: rising holy from the fractures of our past.

    Kintsugi Our Souls Together
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    You say you’re broken.
    Baby—me too.
    Not just cracked,
    but scattered like constellations
    ripped from the sky,
    fragments of light
    drenched in shadow.

    We are star-born ruins—
    cosmic,
    bruised,
    beautiful in our wreckage.
    Galaxies of grief
    swirl behind our eyes,
    but still—
    baby, we shine.

    So let’s gather the remnants,
    each jagged edge,
    each silent scream.
    Let’s stitch our scars
    with molten gold,
    Kintsugi our souls
    until pain becomes pattern,
    and every fracture
    sings with sacred heat.

    I want to know your ache—
    wear it like velvet on my skin,
    learn the shape of your sorrow
    until it fits inside my ribcage.
    We’ll build a throne from bones
    of yesterday’s despair,
    a palace of ash and stars,
    lit by the heavens
    that watched us burn.

    No crowns needed.

    Just you and me—
    flawed,
    fierce,
    whole in our brokenness.
    Treasures made
    from what the world discarded.
    Proof that ruin
    can still rise—
    holy.

    So let the world call us ruins—
    Let them say we should’ve shattered.
    They don’t see the gold in our veins,
    the way we gleam—
    Kintsugi souls…
    even in the dark.

    Visit The Library of Ashes to find more of my work…

  • Splinter Gospel – A Poem of Fracture & Unrepentant Softness

    Rowan Evans

    ✦ Author’s Note ✦

    This piece was born from exhaustion, from the bone-deep ache of being the keeper of others’ ruins while my own remain untouched.
    It isn’t a prayer for rescue—it’s a confession that even when we splinter, we still speak, still love, still remain.
    Thank you for reading my broken gospel.

    ✦ Content & Care Advisory ✦

    These words dwell in shadows of grief, loss, and the ache of unseen burdens. They speak of sorrow, despair, and the fragile pulse of the human heart. Read only if you feel steady, and remember—your safety, your breath, your life are sacred. You are not alone in the dark.

    Cracked porcelain angel in candlelight, symbolizing brokenness and tenderness.
    A gospel written in the language of fracture.

    ✦ Invocation ✦

    Before you read, know this was never meant to save me.
    These words were built from splinters,
    stitched together by loneliness and the quiet ache of being unseen.
    If they cut, let them cut honest—
    for this gospel was written in the language of fracture.

    Splinter Gospel
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    This depression
    is pressin’
    down on my lungs.
    And I can’t breathe.

    I gasp and gasp,
    trying to grasp
    any reason to stay alive—
    when I just want to die.

    I’m never enough.
    Always too much.
    My life is a constant
    fucking contradiction,
    a paradox—

    I am always the shoulder,
    never the lover—
    always the one who stays,
    but easily replaced.

    I am the prayer they whisper
    when loneliness gnaws,
    but never the answer
    they keep when dawn comes.

    I am always the fixer,
    the one who pieces them back together—
    only to be left in the dust.
    An afterthought.

    I hold their ruins,
    but no one holds mine.
    A vessel for everyone’s ache—
    but never a name they choose to keep.

    Even knowing that—
    I stick around.
    It’s emotional masochism,
    I crave the ache, so I—

    I stay until I splinter,
    then watch them leave,
    carrying only the softness
    I begged them to see.

    ✦ Benediction ✦

    May your cracks speak louder than your silence.
    May your softness outlive those who failed to hold it.
    And if your gospel must splinter—
    let it still be yours, and yours alone.

    ✦ Read Next (Suggestions) ✦

    [Cry to the Quiet] — Sacred Desperation
    [Luminescence & Shadow] — A Forbidden Litany
    [A-Woman] — Confession at the Altar of Her
    [Reliquary of Broken Sons] — A Vignette of the Broken Saint & Clown Prince

    Or explore the full archive in [The Library of Ashes]—and if your own confession aches to be written, [commission a custom poem here]. NGCR25 at checkout to get 25% off your ‘request’…

  • The Weight of Wonder

    Rowan Evans

    I’m terrified—not the kind of fear that fades,
    but the kind that lives in my bones,
    whispering at every quiet moment,
    reminding me that I might break the one I finally hold close.

    Because I know what it’s like to be broken,
    to feel like a cracked mirror—
    and sometimes, I catch myself reflecting that same fracture.
    What if my cracks cut them?
    What if my shadows swallow their light?

    I’m scared of being the echo of every hurt they’ve tried to forget—
    the ghost that follows behind love,
    slowly unraveling it, stitch by stitch.

    I want to be their shelter,
    but I’m afraid I’m just another storm,
    a storm that leaves bruises they never asked for.

    I carry the weight of past failures—
    not just mine, but the ones I fear I’ll repeat.
    Because love isn’t just a feeling—
    it’s a responsibility, a fragile treasure
    that can shatter if held too tightly,
    or lost if held too loosely.

    I want to protect them from the pain,
    but what if I become the pain?
    What if my best isn’t enough,
    and the person I love ends up hurting anyway?

    I think about love like the Mona Lisa—
    so rare, so precious, so infinitely valuable—
    and I’m terrified I’ll look away,
    unaware of the masterpiece in my hands,
    until it’s marred beyond repair.

    Maybe I’m afraid because love demands truth,
    and sometimes I’m afraid of what that truth reveals—
    my own brokenness, my own fears,
    the dark places I’ve never fully faced.

    But even with all that fear,
    I want to try.
    To learn how to be the balm,
    not the bruise.
    To hold them like they are the last light I’ll ever find in the dark.

    Because love—real love—shouldn’t be a battlefield.
    It should be home.

    And I’m so desperate to come home.