[I Don’t Need You] – Original A poem about choosing love from a place of wholeness—celebrating independence, intimacy, and the power of saying “I don’t need you, but I want you.”
This piece is a quiet confession—half shadow, half devotion. In In Her Light, I explore what it means to exist in the spaces someone else illuminates, to be tethered to their glow without asking for it, to guard what they give freely. Sometimes devotion is loud, sometimes it’s invisible; this is the latter, folded into every heartbeat and breath.
— B.D. Nightshade
“Existing in her light, a shadow of devotion and quiet confession.”
In Her Light Poetry by B.D. Nightshade
She’s the light,
I’m the shadow she casts.
I’ve always known my place—
not in the center,
not demanding attention,
just here, steady, waiting.
Every laugh she lets loose
echoes against the walls of me.
Every glance she doesn’t notice
leaves fingerprints on my chest.
I’m the quiet behind her flare,
the pulse she doesn’t feel,
but the one that steadies her steps
when the world threatens to wobble.
She doesn’t need me to shine—
but I need her light.
And if the only way to keep it safe
is to linger unseen,
then unseen I remain.
I memorize the way she breathes,
how her shadow bends against the floor,
the subtle tremble in her hands
when she’s trying not to break.
I’ve built invisible walls around her glow,
stone by stone, heartbeat by heartbeat,
so no one steals what she gives freely,
so no one dims what she can’t contain.
And still, I ache.
I ache to be more than a sentinel,
to be the warmth that touches her skin,
to be seen by her, truly.
But for now, I exist in the quiet,
folded into corners she never notices,
a whisper of devotion
she feels only when danger passes,
when chaos recedes,
when the world bows down
and leaves her whole.
I am her shadow,
but even shadows have edges.
I will guard her light,
even from myself.
Some love is written in whispers, some in roars. Some love challenges you, confounds you, makes you question everything you thought you knew about desire, trust, and devotion. This piece is for that kind of love—the kind that doesn’t ask for perfection, but for honesty. The kind that turns what the world sees as flaws into the most beautiful invitations, the most sacred of green lights.
It’s about seeing someone fully, leaning in when others might run, and finding that the very things that could push you away are the things you are drawn to most. These are the red flags that are secretly green, the chaos that feels like home, the complexity that makes your heart stretch wide enough to hold another soul.
Read it as confession. Read it as celebration. Read it as a permission slip for intimacy, wildness, and trust.
The green flags hidden within the chaos—intimacy, trust, and love in their rawest forms.
Green Flags in Disguise Poetry by Rowan Evans (Written April 29th, 2025)
You laid your cards down one by one—
Red flags, you called them.
Warnings.
Not to scare me off,
just to see if I’d run.
I didn’t. I leaned in.
“Anger issues?”
You’ve been gaslit, babe—
called volatile for daring to feel
in a world that only makes room
for men to explode.
But your rage? It’s sacred fire.
I’d build temples in the ashes.
That’s not a flaw. That’s clarity.
Every time you cursed “idiot,”
my heart stuttered with how right it felt.
Why is this so attractive?
Call me weird—
But everything you thought made you unlovable
is exactly what I love.
“Paranoia?”
Please. I get it.
You’ve been betrayed by the hands that held you.
I’ve lived the same kind of quiet, twitching dread.
So if you need to ask questions twice, or ten times—
ask.
I won’t judge.
I’ll just stay.
“Possessive?”
Yes, please.
Own me.
Call me yours with your whole chest.
Claim every piece of me with teeth and intent.
I won’t run—I’ll beg for more.
Mark me. Mold me.
Make me forget who I was
before I belonged to you.
“Jealous?”
God, it’s hot.
Not the petty kind, not the toxic kind—
The kind that says you matter to me so much it scares me.
I wouldn’t ever give you a reason to doubt.
But if I slipped up…
I’d want to be punished.
Yes, I’m that kind of submissive.
“Strict?”
Say less.
Tell me what to do.
Correct me when I misstep.
Guide me with that edge in your voice—
the one that makes my knees forget how to be knees.
I was made for this.
For you.
“Unpredictable?”
That’s not a red flag.
That’s spontaneity.
That’s adventure.
That’s yes, let’s burn the script and make our own.
You bring the chaos—I’ll bring the trust.
“A bitch at times?”
Be one more.
Be unapologetic.
Be brutal when it calls for it.
The world tried to tame you.
Let me be the one who tells you not to flinch.
Your sharpness is beautiful.
Cut me, and I’ll bleed loyalty.
“Sarcastic?”
Perfect.
Fluent in sarcasm.
It’s our dialect now.
Trade jabs with me until it turns to kisses.
Be wicked with your words—I’ll turn them into poems.
“A little selfish?”
Good. Be selfish.
Take what you want.
You deserve that, and more.
You deserve someone who doesn’t flinch when you demand,
someone who smiles when you dominate.
You want a submissive partner?
I’m kneeling already.
You just didn’t notice.
Every “yes, ma’am,”
every “tell me what you need”—
That was me offering myself on a velvet platter.
And I’ll keep offering,
if you’ll keep taking.
“A little sadist?”
Your nails, your teeth, your whispered sins—
I crave them.
I want your bite to outlast the bruises.
I want your darkness to stretch its limbs across me
until I can’t tell where I end and you begin.
“Loves darkness?”
Darling.
I was born in it, too.
We don’t have to be afraid of each other’s shadows.
We light them.
So no.
I don’t see red.
I see you.
And maybe I’m colorblind—
maybe I’ve got protanomaly, babe—
because all I see is green.
Green like go.
Green like yes.
Green like marry me.
Yeah, I said it.
I know you’ll probably get smug,
or tease me,
or roast the hell out of me for this—
but I’m ready.
Test me again.
I’ll pass.
Every time.
Suggested Reads
[My Red Flags]— A Dark Romance Poem About Loving the Dangerous “You told me you had anger issues. But I’ve only seen you furious in defense—a saint of righteous fire.”
‘My Red Flags’ is a confession disguised as a love spell. In this dark romantic poem, Rowan Evans turns every warning sign into worship—an ode to danger, devotion, and the art of loving without fear of burning.
If you would like to check out more of my work, you can find it here in the archives: The Library of Ashes
Heeey, you’re heeere! Haha—yes, yes, YES… you found it.
This is messy. This is wild. This is word soup with fangs and sparkles.
🟠 Rowan’s giggling. 🔴 B.D.’s growling. 🟣 Hex is lurking.
And me? I’m jumping up and down, waving my little knife, spilling ink everywhere, laughing like a sugar‑crazed tornado in a tutu. Maybe I’m plotting. Maybe I’m just playing.
Read it if you want. Or don’t. I don’t care. But I’ll be watching. Always watching.
Rite of Ink visualized: words as weapons, ink as magic, and chaos wrapped in gothic beauty.
Rite of Ink Poetry by Rowan Evans
🟠 (Rowan takes center stage.)
You say you write what you really live— but it reads like fantasy. I say I write a fantasy— but it reads like what I really live.
Nobody believes what you’re saying, dawg, because honestly, your honesty sounds like a fraud. You say, this is my life though— and nobody buys what you’re sellin’, bro.
I could write three poems about one conversation, say I made it all up, and still they see the life in it. You could write a whole poem about your life, and readers would still find lies in it.
You could put your wife’s name in every rhyme, and still nobody believes she exists. I turn my muse into an archetype, and nobody questions whether she lives.
Because my words are alive, and yours? Flat out lies. I write so well, I don’t even have to try— you write, and everybody asks… why?
I could hide the woman I love’s name in plain sight… like Are you even reading this? I’m schooling you, you flunky, and still you think you can fuck with me?
I live in my words, and they live back. Yours? Just echoes, gasping for breath.
Let me rewind that back… I said I could hide her name in plain sight. Are you even reading this? I’m schooling you, you flunky, and still you think you can fuck with me?
You think you’re on the same page? Don’t make me laugh—I’ll leave you shook. You’re not even in the same book. Don’t insult me. Don’t provoke me. Don’t test my rage.
I’ll end up sayin’— B.D. get ’em.
🔴 (B.D. steps from the shadows.)
Bones snap. Blood goes cold. As the tone shifts, I enter the fold. My knife hums a pleasant song— pleasant for me, because you don’t know what you did wrong.
You choke on smoke and sulfur. Blood curdles like spoiled milk. I do it for my own, homegrown culture, as my words cut through flesh like silk.
Your blood like ink will spill across the page. Cold steel my pen, my words? Rage.
And here comes Hex— she’s up next.
🟣 (Hex materializes from nowhere.)
Ashes to ashes, blood to blood, Eye of toad, and witch’s tongue. Tail of newt—the spell’s begun. You think you’re safe… so you don’t run.
Safe is an illusion. When you write? A delusion. When I write? A rite. An earworm. A brain intrusion.
I’ll twist your thoughts like silk spun— this isn’t personal, I’ll hex you for fun.
So mote it be
Step deeper into the shadows and discover the full breadth of my poetry in The Library of Ashes — an archive of ink-stained devotion, dark petals, and threshold poems that linger long after the last candle flickers.Visit The Library of Ashes →
This poem came from a real conversation between my muse and I. She listed her red flags, and I—being me—turned every one into a love poem. Because that’s my red flag: I make danger look divine. Every line here is a little bit truth, a little bit indulgence, and all confession.
‘My Red Flags’ explores how love can sanctify even our most dangerous edges.
My Red Flags Poetry by Rowan Evans
I’ve been lookin’ inside, trying to figure out the inner workings of my mind. Because I want to understand— what are my red flags?
My red flags? Used to be thinkin’ I had none, but now I know—
My red flag is making yours look green, you can do no wrong to me. So let me show you…
You told me you had anger issues. But I’ve only seen you furious in defense— a saint of righteous fire, your rage aimed at those who earned it. That’s not a warning label. That’s holy combustion.
You whispered paranoia like a curse. But I call it vigilance, the art of survival written in the bones of someone who’s been betrayed too often to mistake danger for devotion.
And when you confessed you were possessive. I just said— 🥀 finally. I’ve spent lifetimes begging to be claimed, to be wanted enough to be watched. Let your jealousy bruise me into belonging.
Strict? Then give me commandments to follow. My obedience isn’t weakness, it’s worship.
Unpredictable? Then I’ll never be bored. Every mood shift is another chapter— another storm I get to name.
You said you were a bitch. I said you were honest. I call you survival dressed in stilettos.
Sarcastic? Good. Your tongue cuts, mine bleeds poetry.
Selfish? You’ve earned the right to want. Take what you need. I’ll still be here, open‑palmed.
When you admitted you wanted a submissive partner. I said, lucky you, I confessed; I already kneel to the altar of your voice.
Then you warned me, a little sadist. I smiled—a little masochist. Two edges, one blade, dancing until devotion drips red.
That’s when you said: you love darkness. And I said—then you should understand mine.
So what are my red flags? Maybe it’s this— I see danger, and call it divine.
Because I was never afraid of burning— only of being cold.
🖋️ More Poems for My Muse
If My Red Flags is a confession, these are the echoes — the places where love, surrender, and worship take new forms.
Unapologetically Biased — A love poem that refuses neutrality. Devotion with teeth. Worship without apology.
Body Like A Love Letter — Where language becomes touch, and desire writes itself into being.
Where My Heart Resides — A quiet declaration of belonging; the soft aftermath of loving someone who feels like home.
Each of these poems lives in the same universe — one of red flags turned into relics, of danger rewritten as devotion, of a muse who turns chaos into art.
In this chapter, the spark ignites. The world widens, the stakes sharpen, and desire begins to twist itself into something both beautiful and dangerous. You will witness the first tremors of connection—electric, insistent, threading through marrow and blood alike—as two souls feel the pull of fire and shadow.
This is a chapter of observation, of recognition, of fleeting glances and subtle gestures that imprint themselves on the bones. Approach with an open heart and steady breath; the pull is irresistible, but the fall is only beginning.
Step lightly. Step willingly. Step into the first sparks of devotion, temptation, and sacred chaos.
Desire ignites and sacred chaos begins in Chapter Two of “Of Ashes & Reverence.” The chapel awaits those willing to step into the fire.
Of Ashes & Reverence
Chapter Two The First Spark
Before the chapel, before the hunger, before I knew how willing I was to burn— there was her laugh.
That’s what I remember first.
It sliced through the hush of the old bookstore like lightning splitting open a storm. Not a giggle. Not a chuckle. A laugh—sharp and wild, as if joy had teeth and she liked the taste of it. Everyone else flinched. I turned my head.
She was leaning against the poetry shelf, one boot hooked around the other, thumbing through a weathered copy of Baudelaire like she was skimming a diary she’d written in another life. Her hair was a halo of disorder, and her lips were painted the color of spilled wine.
And gods, she was dangerous.
I felt it before I understood it. The way the air stilled around her, the way people gave her space without realizing they were doing it. She wasn’t loud—she didn’t need to be. She simply was. Like fire. Like prophecy.
I watched her for too long.
She looked up.
And she saw me.
No smile. No twitch of surprise. Just eyes that pinned me to the spot. They weren’t seductive—not yet. They were curious. Like she was trying to decide whether I was worth devouring. I held her gaze and forgot how breathing worked.
“You like watching, don’t you?” she asked. Not accusing. Not mocking. Just…observant. Dangerous in the way truth always is.
I opened my mouth to lie. Closed it.
She smirked and tilted her head, and the silver in her ear caught the light like a warning. “Good.”
She slid the book back onto the shelf and walked away.
No name. No number.
Just that laugh again—low, amused—and a glance over her shoulder that would haunt me for weeks. I didn’t follow. I couldn’t. My legs didn’t trust me to stand.
But from that moment on, I was marked.
Not by words. Not by touch. But by possibility.
The possibility that someone like her could see someone like me—hungry, hidden, half-formed—and still want to light a match.
I saw her three more times before the chapel. Each time, she pulled a little more of me into her gravity. Each time, I went willingly.
Closing Note
As the story unfolds, boundaries will stretch, trust will be tested, and the fire will blaze hotter. Each moment builds on the last, drawing you deeper into a world where desire and reverence collide. What begins with curiosity and fascination will not remain small for long—brace yourself for the path ahead.
The chapel waits. The flames are patient. The journey—your surrender—has only just begun.
—Rowan Evans
Of Ashes & Reverence
Chapter One | The Chapel Enter the ruined chapel where shadows breathe and desire burns. Chapter One of “Of Ashes & Reverence” introduces Gabriel and Lilith in a hauntingly intimate, Neo-Gothic world where love, pain, and devotion intertwine.
Chapter Three | Scorchmarks Chapter Three of Of Ashes & Reverence leads you into the silence after fire—the place where worship and ruin are inseparable. Lilith and Gabriel step deeper into their sacred chaos, where strength is redefined, and surrender leaves scars that feel like prayer.
This piece is an exploration of desire, of the magnetic pull between chaos and devotion. It is written in honor of those who ignite us, who challenge us, and who hold us accountable in ways that leave scars both tender and divine. Every line is a confession, every breath a vow, every bruise a benediction.
What I Want – Desire, chaos, and devotion intertwined in flame and shadow.
Invocation Summoning the Desire
I call upon the fires of longing,
the shadows that linger in the spaces between heartbeats,
and the voices that speak in whispers and hisses.
May the chaos I carry find its mirror,
may the storms I summon meet their echo,
and may the flame of desire be both fierce and tender,
untamed yet intimate.
What I Want Poetry by Rowan Evans
I want somebody who bites, sparks, ignites— lips like razors, tongue like a whip in the night. Pulls me close, lets me fall, then laughs while catching me before I hit the hall, all right?
Somebody who claws, claims me: Mine, line by line, a hissed whisper curling like smoke along my spine. Jealousy sharp, playful, a sting not cruel, possessive enough to bend the room, break every rule.
Hands that push, pull, press, then soothe, hands that punish, prove, make me move. Fire and care that twist, entwine, bruises bloom deep—pain turned divine.
A voice that teases, twists, commands, knows my edges, my pulses, my hands. A storm that lingers, a lullaby that bites, a thief of breath, a ruler of nights.
Somebody who counts the chaos I bring, marks my mischief, tames my sting. Drags me into madness, drags me in deep, wraps me in silk, drags me close to keep.
Eyes that glitter, fingers that trace, heat that flickers across every space. A fire that grips the weight of my chest, makes my pulse race, refuses rest.
And when night thins, the world dissolves, I want that echo I can’t resolve: You are mine. Always mine. A claim, a tease, a bite, a sign— my chaos captured in your flicker of fire, my storm mirrored, my pulse inspired.
Benediction Dark Benediction of the Heart
May those who read these words feel the fire of their own desire,
may the shadows we summon be gentle yet insistent,
and may every heart that beats with chaos
also find solace in the warmth of the untamed flame.
Journey into the Hexverse
Enter desire, chaos, and devotion. From Rowan Evans’ intimate Shadowed Addiction to HxNightshade’s feral Feral Cathedral and B.D. Nightshade’s fractured Through the Shattered Glass, surrender to the Hexverse and let every pulse and whisper pull you deeper.
Triple Poetic Devotion | Rowan Evans, HxNightshade & B.D. Nightshade Three haunting voices, one pulse of devotion and desire. Rowan Evans, HxNightshade, and B.D. Nightshade explore pain, love, and surrender in minimalist, evocative verse.
Through the Shattered Glass: Before the Glass Shattered | B.D. Nightshade Before the glass shatters, shadows linger and memories twist. Discover the haunting prelude to B.D. Nightshade’s “Through the Shattered Glass” series—where ordinary moments become portals to fractured realities.
Shadowed Addiction | Rowan Evans A brief, intimate dive into desire, longing, and emotional darkness. Shadowed Addiction fuses minimalist expression with confessional intensity, weaving English and Tagalog for a sharp, personal resonance.
Feral Cathedral | HxNightshade Dive into the raw, feral worship of desire in Feral Cathedral. A hymn to hunger, chaos, and devotion—where teeth, breath, and pulse become sacred.
These three pieces are whispers in shadowed halls—brief, sharp, and intimate. Each is an exploration of touch, desire, and the sacred ache that thrives in fleeting moments. They do not tell full stories, but they leave traces: marks on skin, echoes on the heart, prayers that bleed into the night. Read slowly. Feel everything.
Three voices. Three devotions. Whispers of touch, holy pain, and bruised prayers bleed into the dark. Read, tremble, and let the echoes linger where they may.
Break me, bless me— the pain is holy, the desire, a spell I cannot resist.
“Your mercy is the cruelest sin, darling, break me—then begin.” – B.D. Nightshade, Mercy’s Sin: Bruised Prayers
Mercy’s Sin: Bruised Prayers Poetry by B.D. Nightshade
Bruised prayers on bitten lips,
nails trace hymns in crimson scripts.
Your mercy is the cruelest sin,
darling, break me—then begin.
Closing Note
Carry these words with reverence. Let them linger where they may, brushing your marrow, igniting quiet fires, and reminding you that even in collision, even in sin, there is a strange, holy beauty. Break gently, love fiercely, and never apologize for what trembles.
If you would like to explore more of the Hexverse, you can find more of my work as my various personas inThe Library of Ashes.
Some desires are less like choice and more like surrender—pulled toward a flame you know will burn you, yet craving the fire all the same. Shadowed Addiction is a whisper of that hunger: a confession wrapped in devotion, darkness softened by love.
Let it linger on your tongue, let it seep into the spaces between thought and feeling.
Darkness, desire, and confessional intensity—Shadowed Addiction by Rowan Evans.
Shadowed Addiction By Rowan Evans
Let me be consumed by your darkness, Let me fester in this addiction— Mahal ko, you’re exactly what I’m missing.
If you would like to explore more of my work, you can find it here:The Library of Ashes
Poetry by Rowan Evans 