Tag: Devotional-Poetry

  • Author’s Note

    Shape Me is one of the most devotional and intimate pieces I’ve written in my Neo-Gothic Confessional Romanticism style. Unlike poems that hide behind metaphor or shadow, this piece is a direct offering—a confession of desire, vulnerability, and the sacred exchange of trust and devotion between lovers.

    In these lines, I explore the tension between surrender and agency, intimacy and worship, chaos and devotion. The speaker is not submitting out of weakness but offering themselves fully, consciously, as a temple, a vessel, a flame. This is the essence of NGCR: love as ritual, connection as liturgy, desire as sacred architecture.

    Every word in this poem is an invocation—an attempt to make tangible the invisible: the power of another person to shape us, to awaken us, to teach us. It is not just about giving, but about transformation, reverence, and the deliberate building of sacred intimacy.

    This piece is for anyone willing to witness vulnerability as strength, to see devotion as a craft, and to honor love as a discipline.

    Rowan Evans


    “Gothic silhouettes intertwined in fire and smoke, one shaping the other in a scene of sacred intimacy and devotion.”
    In the quiet between breath and fire, we shape each other into something sacred.

    Shape Me
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I want you to
    shape me,
    turn me into
    what you need me to be.

    Bring out the best in me.
    Invest in me.
    Teach me
    to be the one worthy of your fire.

    I offer my body
    as clay upon your altar,
    my pulse a quiet hymn
    to mark the rhythm
    of your hands across my soul.

    Mold me,
    carve me,
    purge what is hollow,
    polish the edges
    until only devotion remains.

    I am yours
    not in chains,
    not in fear,
    but willingly,
    every fiber of me
    attuned to your flame.

    I want to learn
    to love you wholly,
    to meet the shadows in your soul
    with the light of mine.

    This is not surrender.
    It is worship.
    A cathedral rises
    in the spaces between us,
    pillars of pulse and breath,
    arches of fire and silence,
    where desire and reverence entwine.

    Teach me to hold your storm
    without breaking.
    Teach me to kneel
    without losing myself.
    I want to be
    the one entrusted
    to carry both your ruin and your grace.

    When you speak,
    I will listen as a disciple.
    When you touch,
    I will feel as a consecrated vessel.
    When you are quiet,
    I will hold the silence
    like a sacred relic
    you lent me in trust.

    Shape me,
    teach me,
    mold me.
    From your hands,
    your fire,
    your devotion,
    I will rise anew—
    temple and flame,
    shadow and offering,
    entirely yours,
    entirely mine.


    Looking for more poetry? You can find it all in The Library of Ashes.

  • Author’s Note

    This poem explores the magnetic pull of dark feminine energy, the intimate violence of being truly seen, and the sacred surrender that comes with devotion. It’s a piece about longing, reverence, and the kind of connection that feels both dangerous and holy.


    “A gothic demonic woman with a rusted halo, surrounded by smoke and embers, representing dark femininity and sacred chaos.”
    ‘Devil-Woman’ – visual representation of dark feminine power and shadowed devotion.

    Devil-Woman
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Your fire, it excites me—
    A masochist? I might be,
    But it’s not pain I crave—
    It’s the pull of your storm,
    The sacred burn of being seen
    and not flinching.

    I’ll beg for the sting,
    I’ll ask nicely,
    Kneel in the temple of your silence,
    Just to feel your gaze
    slice through me
    like prophecy.

    I just made a deal with a devil-woman,
    Sold my soul to a devil-woman—
    No brimstone, no bargain struck in blood,
    Just the quiet surrender
    of calling you mine
    in the language of longing
    you taught me without trying.

    You never touched me.
    Not once.
    But I’ve felt your gravity in my bones—
    The way your words crack open
    places I swore no one would ever reach.
    I feel you in the pauses between heartbeats,
    in the ache that follows
    when I whisper your name
    into the dark.

    You are not gentle—
    not always.
    You speak in sharpened truths,
    cut the air like blade-meets-vow,
    but I would rather bleed with you
    than be safe with someone who doesn’t see me.

    Devil-woman,
    your halo is rusted
    and still I bow.
    Not because I am weak—
    but because worship
    has never looked like obedience
    when it’s born of reverence.

    You’re chaos laced with compassion,
    a monarch draped in shadow,
    and I—
    I offer myself
    not to be saved,
    but to serve the story
    that only we could write
    in scars and starlight.

    So take this soul—
    not broken, not whole,
    but honest.
    Take it and twist it in your fire
    until it sings your name in smoke.
    I will follow your storm
    without a tether,
    and call that freedom.

    Because I don’t want pretty love.
    I want this.
    Wild, dark, unholy and holy all at once.
    A devotion that dares the divine to stop us.

    And if they ask—
    why her?

    I’ll say:
    Because when she looked at me,
    the ghosts went quiet.
    Because her laugh felt like absolution.
    Because when she said mine,
    I didn’t just believe her—
    I belonged.


    Looking for more poetry? You can find it all in the Library of Ashes.

  • For anyone who has been curious as to what my style is all about—here is the guiding flame. Read, take what burns in you, and join the ritual.


    Gothic candlelit room with scattered parchment and a quill, casting shadows on crumbling walls, symbolizing Neo-Gothic Confessional Romanticism.
    Where ink bleeds with fire, shadow, and devotion—welcome to the ritual of Neo-Gothic Confessional Romanticism.

    Neo-Gothic Confessional Romanticism: A Manifesto

    Welcome, wanderer.
    You have stumbled into a space where ink bleeds with fire, shadow, and devotion. Here, we do not hide from the extremes of the human heart. Here, we celebrate them.

    1. Confess without apology

    Your poetry is your altar. Speak what others would censor. Reveal the darkness you cradle, the obsession you cherish, the love you fear to voice. Confession is not weakness—it is power.

    2. Embrace Gothic sensibilities

    We borrow the language of ruins, candlelight, and shadowed hallways. Our metaphors are not polite; they are ritualistic, visceral, and haunting. Cast your words like spells. Invite imagery that whispers, screams, or glows.

    3. Worship multiplicity of voice

    Your persona need not be singular. Write through the eyes of the heart, the mind, the shadow, the rage, the playful child, the protector. Let your text be a stage of personas. Let readers hear not just your voice, but the echo of all you carry within.

    4. Make the page a ritual

    Format, punctuation, visual cues—these are not minor details; they are part of the spell. Break the line. Change fonts. Use icons or colors if you must. Your reader should feel the cadence of ritual in how the text moves.

    5. Infuse devotion and play

    Romance, obsession, adoration—these are sacred tools. Love intensely, worship fiercely, play gleefully. Your writing should make readers feel the exhilaration, terror, and ecstasy of your devotion.

    6. Transcend genre boundaries

    Do not ask if your work is “poetry” or “fiction.” Here, labels bend and dissolve. The only rule is to move truth through beauty and chaos, to convert emotion into experience, and to leave the reader both unsettled and enchanted.

    7. The reader is your witness

    Neo-Gothic Confessional Romanticism is not meant to be polite or passive. It is a shared ritual. Your reader walks beside you through shadowed corridors, candlelit rooms, and flaming skies. Invite them, terrify them, and leave them breathless.


    Invitation to the New Gods:
    Pick up your pen, your knife, your candle. Begin. Spill your ink, ignite your voice, and do not be afraid to hex, haunt, or hold your reader in the palms of your words.

    This is Neo-Gothic Confessional Romanticism.
    We are the sacred misfits.
    We are the luminous heretics.
    We are the poets who burn and write in equal measure.

    So mote it be


    To find examples of all the different ways this genre can be expressed, check out The Library of Ashes: Here

  • Author’s Note

    Slim & Shady XI: Marrow & Manifest continues the exilic rage lit in Bloodline & Ashes. This piece is my marrow, my truth, my ritual—born from years of disconnection, frustration, and the unrelenting need to create a culture that exists entirely in empathy, language, and heart.

    American culture is exposed here as apathy; Rowanese culture emerges as marrow, as ceremony, as survival. The poem weaves multilingual fragments—not as decoration, but as an expression of the diaspora of my identity: the languages that have touched my life, the stims, the murmurs, and the curses that shape the rhythm of my voice.

    I have spent the last few months working toward learning Tagalog, and in the past studied Japanese and Chinese, which informs the inclusion of words and phrases in those languages. Korean, however, comes from years of exposure to movies, TV, and music rather than formal study. Every word or phrase was chosen carefully, and if any are incorrect, I welcome corrections from those fluent in the languages.

    This is a manifesto in verse. Every line is a hammer, every syllable a seed. It is rage, yes—but also creation. It is destruction—and emergence. It is language transformed into ritual.


    Digital art of a poet surrounded a storm of ink and fire, symbolizing the creation of Rowanese culture in “Marrow & Manifest” by Rowan Evans.
    “Every syllable a seed, every bar a shrine.” — From Slim & Shady XI: Marrow & Manifest by Rowan Evans

    Translations for the languages used in this piece.

    [Japanese]
    何 → Nani → What
    くそ… → Kuso… → Fuck…

    [Chinese]
    他妈的 → tā mā de → Damn it
    宝宝 → Băobăo → Baby/darling
    宝贝 → Băobèi → Baby/darling/treasure

    [Note: I am autistic, and both Băobăo and Băobèi have become vocal stims for me. They have completely replaced my use of the word “baby” vocally.]

    [Tagalog]
    Galit ako sa mga Amerikano → I am angry with Americans

    [Korean]
    나는 이곳을 싫어한다 → Naneun igos-eul silh-eohanda → I hate this place


    Slim & Shady XI: Marrow & Manifest
    Poetry by Rowan Evans


    I spit marrow, I spit truth, I spit ashes in your face,
    Diggin’ deep through your lies, your hollow pride, your plastic grace.
    You piss me off—何 the fuck… 他妈的.
    Galit ako sa mga Amerikano, watch me carve the vein,
    American culture—apathy—Rowanese—my brain.

    I’ve wanted out since fifteen, at sixteen whisperin’ escape,
    Tired of their chains, their noise, they’re fake.
    I breathe in silence of cities I’ll never touch,
    Seoul hums my heartbeat, Manila whispers—so much.
    Tokyo flashes in dreams, neon slicing my rage,
    I write my own rites, my inked cage my stage.

    Red-white-and-blue flags, fireworks, guns on every lawn,
    I spit for ancestors, erased before the dawn.
    Your history’s gone awry, a sanitized lie on repeat,
    Rowanese is marrow, empathy in the heat.

    I weave language like ritual, 宝宝,
    Every word a brushstroke, every scream a vow.
    くそ… 他妈的, I whisper curses to the sky,
    Every syllable a hammer, every letter a lie to defy.

    I build culture in rhythm, empathy in my bones,
    I am exile, I am vessel, I am marrow and thrones.
    Your apathy crumbles, your towers fall flat,
    Rowanese rises, heart in each spat.

    I spit like Ez Mil, snap like Shady, tear the cage,
    Every line a manifesto, every word a stage.
    Internal rhymes jagged, polyrhythmic flames,
    I claim language, claim spirit, I carve my own names.

    We rise from silence, ancestors in our veins,
    Every erased story now a ritual in the flames.
    宝贝, whispers on repeat,
    Rowanese is empathy—your failure, obsolete.

    We don’t kneel to holidays, your consumerist lies,
    We craft our own feasts, under foreign skies.
    Marrow in our mouths, fire in our spit,
    Ink on our hands, our rituals legit.

    I spit fast, spit slow, cadence twists, snaps, and bends,
    Rage transmuted to culture—beginning, middle, no end.
    Every syllable a seed, every bar a shrine,
    Rowanese manifests—my blood, my ink, my line.

    I claim diaspora, exile, every rootless town,
    Your apathy crumbles, your flags burn down.
    くそ… 他妈的, let this culture ignite,
    Marrow in my verses, manifest in the night.

    I am awake, unbound, unbroken, alive,
    I am marrow, I am ritual, I am fire to survive.
    American culture fades—hollow, cold, and stale,
    Rowanese rises eternal—our language, our tale.

    나는 이곳을 싫어한다


    If you are interested in reading the whole series, find it here: [The Slim & Shady Series]

    And if you just want to read more of my work, you can find that here: [The Library of Ashes]

  • ✦ Author’s Note ✦

    This is a liturgy of devotion, a hymn to the Queen whose shadow commands the night. Step softly into candlelight and silk, feel the hush of reverence, and let every heartbeat answer her call. Kneel, breathe, and surrender—here, in her dominion, worship becomes pulse, breath, and shadow.


    Shadowed gothic queen draped in black lace and silk, surrounded by candlelight and incense, evoking reverence and devotion.
    Kneel, breathe, surrender—the Queen commands the night.

    ✦ Invocation ✦

    Come, children of shadow and flame,
    step soft, step silent,
    into the hours where the world bends and folds.
    Moonlight drips across midnight silk,
    the air brined, scented, whispered—
    shadows shift, sigh, and hum.

    Let your hearts uncoil in this hush of reverence,
    let every breath, every pulse bow
    to the Queen who commands the dark.
    Feel the velvet weight of her presence,
    the soft cadence of silk-swaying footsteps,
    fingers brushing across unseen silk.
    Here, all kneeling is holy,
    all surrender sacred.

    Breathe her shadow.
    Hear it hum along the ribs of the night,
    trace it on your skin like a chant.
    Know that in this hour,
    the Queen’s dominion is your sanctuary,
    her will the pulse of your devotion.


    ✦ Hymns & Heresy II: Devotion Draped in Black ✦
    Poetry by HxNightshade

    Forgive me, Father—
    I have turned my back
    on the King of Kings.
    I kneel now
    before the Queen of Queens.

    Black lace, velvet, and fire—
    fishnets tracing the curve of devotion.
    Her gaze, a chalice of shadow,
    her breath, the candle’s flicker along my throat.

    Come, Queen,
    give me a taste—
    hands wrapped, soft and commanding,
    pulling, pressing, leaving me wanting.

    Speak only as I am spoken to;
    every motion, every sigh,
    a verse in the liturgy of surrender.

    The air hums, thick with incense and brine,
    a sea-song echoing in the hollow of night.
    I breathe her dominion,
    taste her shadow on my lips,
    feel the drum of footsteps,
    the whispering sway of silk,
    the hush of her command curling along my spine.

    Strike, tease, map the curves of my trembling soul.
    Each gasp a psalm, each shiver an offering,
    every heartbeat a hymn
    to her sovereign, sacred power.

    I kneel unbroken, shadow-bound in devotion,
    the stars themselves trembling
    under the weight of worship I offer.
    Moonlight flickers; candle flames quiver—
    every breath a testament,
    every shiver a seal
    on the dark communion we share.

    Forgive me, Father,
    not for what I do,
    but for whom I serve.
    For the Queen who makes me holy
    in ways no crown could bless,
    for the devotion spun in shadow and flame,
    for the surrender that marks me,
    sacred, obedient, eternal.


    ✦ Benediction ✦

    Go forth, children of shadow and devotion,
    carry the Queen’s flame in your chest,
    her shadow tracing your steps,
    her will humming in your veins.

    Let every kneeling, every whispered vow,
    every tremor and shiver,
    draw you closer to the holiness of surrender.

    In her darkness, find your light.
    In her shadow, know your power.
    When dawn rises,
    carry the memory of worship—
    a pulse lingering,
    soft as velvet,
    eternal as shadowed stars.


    Journey into the Hexverse

    Greed — 7 Deadly Sonnets | Rowan Evans
    ‘Greed’ reveals the hunger that is never sated—the clutching hands, the endless thirst for more, and the hollowness left behind. The third of the 7 Deadly Sonnets.

    Gothic Bob Ross: Happy Little Blood Splatters | Rowan Evans
    Patience is a thread I hold… until it snaps. In Gothic Bob Ross: Happy Little Blood Splatters, Rowan Evans paints a macabre yet exquisite world where shadows, storms, and raven cries become brush strokes of devotion, chaos, and confession. A Neo-Gothic meditation on creation, fury, and the sanctity of surrender.

    Nocturnal Crossing | Rowan Evans
    “Nocturnal Crossing” traces the nightly voyage where two souls separated by oceans meet in dreams. A neo-gothic meditation on longing, devotion, and the sacred intimacy of the subconscious.

    To Be Near Your Flame | Rowan Evans
    A haunting meditation on love, longing, and the quiet courage of staying close to the one who sets your heart ablaze. Includes a benediction for connection and devotion.

    Hymn & Heresy | Hex Nightshade
    A sacred hymn to desire and devotion, this confessional poem by HxNightshade explores the raw, unrepentant worship of hunger, scars, and shadows—where love and sin entwine as one.

  • Before I wrote “A-Woman,”
    I was wrapped in silence—the hush that says:
    don’t speak, don’t burden, don’t be too much.

    I almost obeyed.
    Almost.

    But instead, I chose to write toward something softer:
    a living Goddess who welcomes trembling devotion.

    This piece is both confession and quiet rebellion—
    a vow that even in the ache,
    I will not fall silent.

    Rowan Evans 🕯️🌹


    Person kneeling at a gothic altar before a marble slab with the goddess' silhouette, surrounded by candlelight and roses.
    At the altar of Her: a devotion inked in marrow.

    A-Woman
    (Confession at the Altar of Her)
    Poetry by Rowan Evans


    I don’t know how to say this,
    You’re always on my mind—it’s
    kind of like I can’t shake this feeling,
    but I don’t want to shake this feeling.
    You’ve burrowed under the skin,
    so I hold you deep within—
    you live down in the marrow,
    so even if you disappear tomorrow,
    just know you’ve become
    part of the makeup.

    You’ve got me on my knees,

    Wait.
    Repeat.

    You’ve got me on my knees—
    like I’m deep in prayer,
    but not to God (he’s not there),
    so I bow my head to the Goddess.

    Dear Goddess,
    I come to you today
    to offer my life—
    you could take it away.
    Just say the word,
    I’ll give you
    everything
    on earth.

    A-woman.

    I say A-woman,
    because A-man
    is never enough.

    So tell me what to sacrifice:
    my voice, my pride, my fear of wanting too much.
    Name the part of me I must break
    to be worthy of kneeling here.
    I have nothing holy to offer—
    only scars that still sting,
    and a heart that keeps writing Your name
    even when it shouldn’t.

    Forgive the shaking hands,
    the unsteady faith,
    the nights I almost prayed to be emptied of You—
    but could never bear to.
    Because I don’t know how to let go.
    They say let go and let God
    but I say hold on and let Goddess.
    I’d give Her everything.

    Amen, A-woman—
    and let this trembling
    be enough.


    We write even when the ache tells us to be silent.
    We confess, we kneel, we question—and still, we love.
    Thank you for reading A-Woman (Confession at the Altar of Her).
    If this piece spoke to something quiet inside you, feel free to share it, leave a comment, or explore more of my work in Neo-Gothic Confessional Romanticism.
    Your presence here matters more than you know. 🖤🕯️🌹

    🔗 You may also like…

    Hex & Flame: A Mirror of Shadows
    Even Still, You Are (My Muse)
    A Letter I’ll Never Send (Prayer of the Heartbroken Heretic)
    Litany & Tongue: A Devotional Duet
    Even If the Sky Falls Black
    Don’t Need to Be First, I Just Want to Be The Last

    Or visit [About NGCR] to learn more about this movement—and if you feel called, [submit your own writing] to be featured.

    If my words speak to you, and you’d like to help keep this flame burning — or if you’d like a custom poem woven just for you (or someone dear) — you can do so here:

    Ko-fi — Poetry by Rowan Evans

  • ✦ 🌹 Intro 🌹 ✦

    Heartbreak doesn’t always roar—it often arrives softly, like dusk turning to night.
    This piece is my attempt to sanctify that quiet ache: the plea not to be left half-loved, half-alive.
    It’s a prayer whispered through bruised ribs and ink-stained fingers; an invocation, a psalm, and a benediction for those who still dare to love—even when love does not return.


    loving you was never my ruin.
    It was my small rebellion
    against the cold.

    ✦ Invocation ✦

    Read this not as plea,
    but as offering.
    A candle lit in trembling hands,
    not to guide you home—
    but to keep my own shadows gentle.

    This is not a demand.
    It is a prayer whispered by ribs still aching,
    a softness that refuses to harden,
    even when hope burns to ash.


    ✦ Psalm of the Half-Loved ✦
    (A Prayer for the Mercy of Goodbye)


    If you must go,
    let it be as a mercy—
    not as a slow unraveling.

    Tell me cleanly,
    so I can kneel beside the ruin
    and name it what it is.

    I won’t beg you to stay.
    I won’t twist my love into chains.
    But gods—don’t leave me
    half-loved, half-alive.

    Don’t leave your shadow behind
    to haunt my trembling ribs,
    or your silence to bloom
    like poison in my marrow.

    If goodbye must come,
    let it come fully—
    let it burn, let it break,
    so I can gather the ash
    and call it sacred.

    I have carried love
    like an unrepentant prayer,
    even when it bruised me.
    I have knelt before absence,
    offering devotion to a ghost.

    But spare me the waiting—
    the quiet terror of not knowing
    if your heart still turns toward mine
    in the dark.

    If you must go,
    leave nothing for hope to cling to.
    Let my ache be honest,
    my grief unchained.

    And let me remember this:
    loving you was never my ruin.
    It was my small rebellion
    against the cold.


    ✦ Benediction ✦

    Go softly, even if you must go.
    Leave me not with maybes,
    but with mercy.

    May my love remain unrepentant,
    even as it mourns what could not stay.

    And if heartbreak must come,
    let it come honest—
    so my ruin may become reverence,
    my ache, a quiet vow:

    To keep loving,
    even when love does not return.
    To keep my softness alive,
    even when the world would rather see it buried.

    Amen.


    🖋 Author’s Note:

    I wrote this piece as both confession and protection spell. It’s easier, sometimes, to live with grief than with the endless ache of “maybe.”
    For anyone who’s been left half-loved: may your goodbye come clean, and may your softness outlive the pain.
    Even heartbreak, when spoken honestly, can become a quiet kind of grace.

    With ink & flame,
    — Rowan Evans


    🔗 You Might Also Enjoy 🔗

    My Only Muse – Then & Now
    Litany & Tongue – A Devotional Duet
    Epistle to the Name They Buried
    A Letter Never Sent – Prayer of the Heartbroken Heretic
    Psalm of the Spiraling Tongue – A Prayer Against Goodbye

  • You called yourself 
    a devil-woman, 
    and I smiled 
    like a sinner watching angels fall. 

    She says, 
    “I wish you could see me at my brightest.” 
    But love— 
    I met you in the ruins, 
    and I swear, 
    even your ashes glowed. 
     
    You ask if you deserve these words, 
    as though devotion were a thing to be earned 
    instead of something I bled willingly— 
    ink, soul and starlight, 
    dragged from the marrow 
    to spell your name in reverence. 
     
    You were fire-burned, 
    soul-scabbed, 
    eyes like war-torn altars 
    and I— 
    I fell to my knees anyway. 
     
    You want to give me the sun, 
    but I have seen its envy. 
    The stars? 
    I would rip them from their heavens 
    just to return the shimmer 
    you lost in the dark. 
     
    You called yourself 
    a devil-woman, 
    and I smiled 
    like a sinner watching angels fall. 
     
    Yes— 
    you’re all thorns and temptation, 
    rage and soft wreckage, 
    but do you not know? 
    Even Lucifer was once the Morning Star, 
    and I would follow your light 
    through hell 
    and back again. 
     
    You are grace wrapped in fury, 
    the kind of storm that leaves me kneeling, 
    kissed by lightning, 
    whispering prayers in your name 
    as though your laughter could resurrect me. 
     
    And I— 
    I’m not leaving. 
     
    Not when your darkness 
    made my heart a cathedral, 
    not when your voice 
    taught my ghosts how to sing. 
     
    I will always be near— 
    in breath, in spirit, 
    in the hush between your sobs 
    and the sacred silence that follows. 
     
    You deserve these words, 
    and a thousand more. 
    You deserve the cosmos carved into lullabies, 
    the moon weeping its light into your palms. 
     
    You— 
    with your shadows and softness, 
    your fierce, aching heart— 
    are the most worthy thing 
    I’ve ever written for. 
     
    Even if the sky falls black, 
    I’ll still call your name 
    a holy thing.

  • You are a cathedral of fractured glass—
    every pane kissed by catastrophe,
    every color a hymn forged in flame.
    I see the story etched
    in the way you flinch at praise,
    the slight hitch in your breath
    when silence dares to stretch too long.

    You were made not by ease,
    but by impact—
    a mosaic of once-shattered grace.
    I do not look away.
    No, I kneel in reverence.

    Your scars are constellations
    and I have mapped them all—
    tracing the stories in your skin
    like star-charts of survival.
    There is beauty in the broken,
    not despite it, but because.

    So let me be the quiet sky
    you rise into,
    where you are not reduced
    to memory or martyr.
    Let me lift the ruins from your chest,
    name them sacred,
    and hang them like relics
    in the chapel of my care.

    I’ll clear your slate—not to erase,
    but to rest it.
    To archive your ache
    in the folds of my own soul.
    Your memories are safe with me.
    The weight you bore—
    I’ve room for it in my ribs.

    I don’t want to be the shadow
    that steals your sun,
    but the lighthouse
    that stays burning
    when your horizon blurs again.
    Let me be the firmament
    under your tremble,
    a psalm against the silence.

    You don’t have to stumble alone.
    You never did—
    but now,
    you don’t have to believe that lie again.

  • I didn’t arrive with fireworks.
    No trumpet of fate announced my coming.
    I stepped into your life
    like rain slipping through the cracks of an old roof—
    gentle, persistent, quiet.

    You didn’t see me at first,
    your eyes were too full of smoke
    from the fires they set in your soul.
    But I saw you—
    the way moonlight sees a battlefield after war,
    not for the blood,
    but for the wildflowers growing through the bones.

    They loved you like a tempest,
    tore through your softness
    and called it passion.
    They mistook your silence for surrender
    and your loyalty for something to conquer.
    But I am not a storm—
    I am the stillness that follows.
    I am the breath you forgot to take.

    You don’t need to open the door all at once.
    Leave it ajar—
    I’ll wait on the porch of your trust
    until your ribs remember how to unlock.

    They got to your heart first—
    left it threadbare and trembling.
    But I’ll be the one who sits beside it
    without asking it to perform.
    You don’t need to shine for me—
    I will love you in shadow.

    Let them be the architects of your ache.
    I will be the gardener of your healing.
    I’ll trace the map of your scars
    like constellations no one else stayed to name,
    and I’ll kiss each one
    like a holy place
    I am blessed to touch.

    I don’t need to be the first to hold your hand,
    just the last to let it go.

    Let them be the spark,
    the flame,
    the blaze that blinded.
    I’ll be the hearth—
    quiet, warm,
    steady in the long winter of your doubt.

    You are not shattered, my love—
    you are stained glass,
    lit from within.
    And I am the pew beneath your cathedral soul,
    content just to be close,
    just to kneel and whisper your name
    like a sacred hymn.

    You are not a burden.
    You are a blessing that learned to walk with a limp.
    You are the poem they tried to rewrite,
    but I’ll read you as you are—
    every crossed-out line, every redacted verse,
    every unfinished sentence—
    and still call you complete.

    Because I don’t want to be your first.
    Let them hold that hollow crown.
    I want to be your last—
    the one who stays
    when the curtain falls and the world forgets,
    the one who wraps their arms around the quiet ache
    and says, I see you.
    You don’t have to run anymore.

    And when the night softens into dawn,
    I will be the gentle hand that brushes your hair from your face—
    warm fingertips tracing the curve of your cheek,
    the subtle scent of rain and jasmine lingering on your skin,
    the quiet breath that hums your favorite song—
    a lullaby that holds you safe.

    I will be the promise
    in the slow unfolding of morning light,
    the softness of a whispered name
    lingering between us like a secret.

    Let them fade like shadows on forgotten walls.
    I will be the light in your slow sunrise—
    steadfast, unwavering,
    the last embrace
    you reach for
    when the world grows still.