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Poetry by Rowan Evans

Tag: duality

  • I Am Not Your Puzzle – A Poetic Exploration of Identity, Duality & Self

    Rowan Evans

    Introduction

    This piece explores the tension between external assumptions and inner truth. It reflects on dualities of identity—masculine and feminine, strength and softness, approachability and untouchability—and celebrates the uncontainable self. It is a declaration: I will not conform to expectations; I am fully, unapologetically me.

    Ethereal figure at stormy ocean edge, blending masculine and feminine features, half in sunlight, half in shadow, representing paradox and self-identity.
    “I am fire wrapped in silk. A storm brushing against calm. I am not your puzzle. I am me.”

    I Am Not Your Puzzle
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    They stare.
    They whisper.
    They assign me shapes that do not exist.

    “Man.”
    “Woman.”
    “Something else.”
    All wrong.

    I am fire wrapped in silk,
    a storm brushing against the calm,
    the knife that softens,
    the hand that strikes,
    the laugh that shatters silence.

    They want to understand me.
    They cannot.
    I am not a riddle to solve,
    not a lesson for their comfort.
    I am not for your ease,
    not for your comprehension.
    I am me.

    Masculine. Feminine. Both. Neither.
    A contradiction that hums beneath skin,
    that bends time and expectation,
    that exists fully
    even when the world cannot name it.

    I am tender and terrifying.
    Soft enough to hold your secrets,
    sharp enough to cut illusions in half.
    I am easy to love,
    but impossible to own.

    You think you see me—
    but the closer you lean, the more I slip.
    I will not fit your boxes.
    I will not stand still for your definitions.
    I will not shrink to make your eyes comfortable.

    I am the surface and the depth,
    the ache and the exhale,
    the hand that heals
    and the fire that purges.

    Call me what you want—
    I am not your puzzle.
    I am the storm, the calm, the contradiction,
    the infinite they cannot name.
    I am me.

    And that is more than enough.

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

  • Therapy in Arkham

    Rowan Evans

    A little bit Batman, a little bit Joker—
    guess you can call me the Bat Who Laughs,
    stitched from trauma and rebellion,
    where cape meets chaos,
    and pain becomes performance.

    A hero, a villain… neither.
    I’m the flicker between the two,
    a soul held hostage by contrast—
    one half cloaked in justice,
    the other craving oblivion’s grin.

    They see the cowl, the calm—
    but not the mirror I cracked at thirteen,
    when my mind split like Wayne’s pearls,
    shattering into silence and survival.
    I learned to build walls from Batcave blueprints,
    armor forged in fear,
    gadgets disguised as coping skills.

    But the laughter came later—
    sharp, jarring, Joker-born.
    The way I smiled while crumbling.
    The way I made art from agony.
    Some days, my thoughts are painted like his smile—
    too wide, too raw,
    hiding the razor’s edge behind a joke.

    I am Two-Face in spirit—
    hope on one side, hurt on the other.
    The coin never lands.
    It spins forever in my chest,
    each revolution whispering,
    “You’re too much… not enough… pick a side.”

    But I can’t.
    I am both.
    All.
    None.

    Scarecrow lingers in my dreams—
    my anxiety dressed in burlap,
    feeding me fear through IVs of doubt.
    I’ve lived in Arkham without bars,
    each locked door named Dysphoria, Panic, Isolation.
    Each scream, a therapy session no one heard.

    Some days, I am the asylum—
    haunted halls echoing with unspoken names.
    Other days, I’m Oracle—
    broken spine, still fighting,
    my voice a lifeline to others lost in the dark.

    And yes, I’ve loved like Ivy—
    wild, tangled, misunderstood.
    Tried to bloom in poisoned soil.
    Tried to make something beautiful from ruin.
    I’ve felt like Harley—
    laughing too loud,
    loving too hard,
    breaking in the shape of someone else’s gaze.

    Red Hood rages where my sorrow used to sit.
    Nightwing hope fights to stay upright.
    But Batman?
    He’s the mask I wore for years—
    stoic, silent, pretending not to feel.
    I thought if I was strong enough,
    I’d earn the right to survive.
    To be loved.

    But now I know—
    strength isn’t silence.
    It’s confession.
    It’s crying in the cave.
    It’s kissing your chaos
    and saying: You’re part of me, too.

    There’s a little Constantine in me—
    cursed and clever,
    using magic to distract from the scars.
    A little Raven—
    emotions bound in shadow,
    power barely leashed.
    A lot of Zatanna—
    saying the words backwards,
    hoping the spell finally heals what reality won’t.

    You ask who I am?
    I am the comic that bleeds between genres.
    I am queer-coded courage,
    autistic empathy in a world that demands apathy.
    I am the villain in someone’s story,
    the hero in my own.
    I am transition and transformation,
    each hormone a resurrection,
    each truth a sharpened Batarang
    thrown at the lies they fed me.

    You love my light,
    but will you stay for my shadow?
    Will you kiss the chaos in my grin,
    hold the wreckage in my ribcage,
    and see the beauty in my backstory?

    Because I am not cured.
    I am not clean.
    I am not safe in the ways the world wants me to be.
    But I am alive.
    Still here.
    Still fighting.
    Still laughing.

    A little bit Batman, a little bit Joker—
    guess you can call me the Bat Who Laughs.
    But know this—
    behind the madness is meaning.
    Behind the costume is courage.
    Behind the duality…
    is me.

  • For Them, I Would

    Rowan Evans

    By Rowan Evans & B.D. Nightshade

    The Light

    I have always been the light,
    a candle in the endless night,
    soft hands to cradle weary hearts,
    a voice that soothes when the world falls apart.

    I have mended wounds with whispers,
    stitched broken souls with love,
    stood unshaken in the storm,
    bearing burdens never meant to be my own.

    For them, I would take the weight,
    carry sorrow upon my spine,
    let their darkness rest in me,
    if it meant they’d see the sun again.

    But love alone cannot keep them safe…

    The Dark

    So I let the light die.

    Tore off the wings that held me back,
    let the shadows seep into my skin,
    and bared my teeth at the world that dares
    to take what is mine.

    I have seen monsters feed on the kind,
    watched them sink their claws into the soft.
    So I became something worse—
    something they fear.

    For them, I would paint my hands red,
    break bones like brittle twigs,
    drag demons into the abyss,
    and never once look back.

    If a monster must rise, let it be me.
    Let them run, let them cower,
    let them know the dark has found its keeper.

    Because I will not lose them.
    I will not watch them break.
    I will not let the wolves feast.

    For them, I would become anything.

    Even… A monster.