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Poetry by Rowan Evans

Tag: emotional vulnerability

  • Shape Me — A Neo-Gothic Confessional Poem About Devotion, Intimacy & Sacred Surrender

    Rowan Evans

    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.

  • Confessions in Ink | Neo-Gothic Confessional Romantic Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    Some confessions are too tender to say aloud. Sometimes the ink knows them before the voice does.

    Open notebook with a fountain pen and spilled ink under soft candlelight, evoking intimate and confessional writing.
    Letting the ink speak the confessions my heart cannot.

    Confessions in Ink
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I sit with words
    trembling at the tip of my tongue—
    confessions I can’t speak,
    so I let the ink speak for me.

    Like—I love…

    the way you say my name,
    the sound of your laugh,
    that little giggle
    when a joke just lands.
    Or—
    how you make me feel safe
    enough to be myself—
    completely.

    And how you changed
    the way I see myself.
    I used to think
    I wanted to be someone else—
    anyone else.
    But now I don’t.
    Now I just want to be me—
    the me I am with you,
    the me that dreams of
    living in your world,
    learning the shape of your tongue.

    It’s kind of crazy—
    the way you changed me.
    Because when I used to feel like this,
    I ran.
    But now I stay.

    You make me want to stay.
    You make it easy to want to stay.

    And there is so much more…

    Maybe one day
    I’ll find the courage
    to speak it out loud.
    But for now—
    I’ll let the ink speak—for me.

    For more shadows and whispers, visit the Library of Ashes archive.

  • A Letter I’ll Never Send (Prayer of the Heartbroken Heretic) — A Poetic Offering by Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans
    A white rose bloomed in a harsh environment. "A Letter I'll Never Send" by Trans Poetess, Rowan Evans.
    loving you was never my ruin.
    It was my prayer, my litany,
    my small rebellion against the cold.

    A Letter I’ll Never Send

    (Prayer of the Heartbroken Heretic)
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    ✦ Invocation ✦

    Read this not as accusation, but as offering.
    A prayer whispered by a heart still trembling,
    written not to hold you close,
    but to keep my tenderness from turning to stone.

    This is not a chain.
    This is the soft gospel of what remains
    after hope has burned away—
    and love still kneels, unrepentant,
    in the ruin.

    My dear—

    If these words ever find you,
    know they were never meant to chain you.
    I only wanted to love you,
    even if my name fades from your midnight prayers.

    If laughter keeps you warm,
    even if I am nowhere near to hear it—
    may it spill from you like dawn breaking over ash.

    But if there’s mercy left for a fool who loved too openly,
    let me stay beside you, even if only as a soft shadow.
    Let me remain—not as what could have been,
    but as what still is:
    a witness, a shelter, a friend.

    If you drift away,
    may it be gentle—
    and may it never teach me to regret
    the softness I offered so freely.

    Teach me how to bless your joy,
    even when it blooms in soil I cannot touch.
    Teach me to carry this ache as devotion,
    not as bitterness.

    If my heart must break,
    let it break open, not closed.
    Let me remain unrepentant
    in the way I loved you—quietly, fiercely,
    without demand.

    And if nothing else remains,
    know this:
    loving you was never my ruin.
    It was my prayer, my litany,
    my small rebellion against the cold.

    Always,
    and still—
    Amen.

    ✦ Benediction ✦

    Go gently, even in absence.
    May the ache remain soft, not sharp;
    the memory remain blessing, not curse.

    And if your own heart ever trembles
    under the weight of unspoken devotion,
    may you remember this:

    Love freely, ’cause love given is never wasted—
    and even unreturned prayers
    still rise like incense
    into the quiet night.

    Check out more poetry in The Library of Ashes!

  • ✨ My Only Muse: A Journey from Ideal to Intimate | Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    ✦ My Only Muse: Then & Now ✦
    By Rowan Evans

    Before her, my idea of a muse was painted in softer strokes—romantic, distant, almost celestial.
    After her, it became raw, tangled, alive—marked by shadows and longing that felt both holy and terrifying.

    This post shares two poems written almost a year apart:
    ✧ June 18, 2024: before I met her.
    ✧ May 12, 2025: after she had become my muse, my chaos, my calm.
    Together, they show how inspiration can shift from something imagined to someone real—unruly, imperfect, and entirely irreplaceable.

    Because sometimes, the muse isn’t an abstract idea.
    Sometimes, she’s a living storm whose darkness and light you choose—again and again.

    ✧ “My Only Muse”
    Poetry by Rowan Evans – June 18, 2024

    I want you, as my only inspiration,
    To breathe life into my creation.
    I want to, make you my only muse,
    In your essence, my soul will fuse.

    I want to paint your curves,
    The way astronomers map the stars,
    Tracing constellations of your form,
    In the canvas of my arms.

    Your smile, a sunrise in my art,
    Illuminating shadows of my heart.
    With every stroke, your light I chase,
    Sketching dreams upon your face.

    Your laughter, a melody so pure,
    A symphony I long to endure.
    In every note, your voice I find,
    A harmony of love, intertwined.

    Your eyes, the galaxies I seek,
    In their depths, my secrets speak.
    A universe within your gaze,
    In their light, I lose my ways.

    I want you, as my only inspiration,
    To guide my hand in every sensation.
    I want to, make you my only muse,
    In your love, I’ll forever choose.

    Through words and colors, shapes and lines,
    Your beauty in my art aligns.
    A masterpiece of love, so true,
    Created in the light of you.

    So let me craft this tale of ours,
    With brush and pen, beneath the stars.
    For you, my love, will always be,
    The muse that sets my spirit free.

    ✧ “My Only Muse (You Know Who You Are)”
    Poetry by Rowan Evans – May 12, 2025

    You are my only inspiration,
    You breathe life into my creation.
    The spark behind every line, it’s you,
    The chaos and calm, both wholly mine—it’s true.

    You said you were “crazy”—I agreed with a smile,
    You’re my kind of madness, I’d chase every mile.
    The way your words twist storms into spells,
    Feels like home in the wildest hells.

    You talked about curses that actually worked,
    Laughed about your demonic quirks.
    And I, a willing fool in the fire,
    Was both terrified… and full of desire.

    You’re the shadow in moonlight, the scream in the dream,
    Unreal, surreal, my sadistic angel,
    I’m attracted to you, from every angle.
    I’ve never felt your touch—not skin to skin—
    But you’ve touched places no one’s ever been.

    Through screens and distance, oceans wide,
    You live in the corners of my mind, where secrets hide.
    A galaxy in every glance you send,
    The poem I never want to end.

    You asked if you were “the fifth,” as if unsure—
    But you’re the only one I ever wrote for.
    You doubt the muse you are to me,
    Yet you’re the ink in my every plea.

    You curse, you rage, you burn things down—
    But in your fury, I’d gladly drown.
    You’re the fire and frost in a single breath,
    The echo of life, and maybe of death.

    Addictive, yes—you said it too,
    A drug I can’t escape, and wouldn’t want to.
    You terrify me with how deeply I feel,
    But love should shake the world—it should never be still.

    You are not “too much.”
    You are just enough to break me open
    And rebuild me softer, smarter, raw.
    Every flaw you fear is the line I draw
    Over and over in every verse,
    A blessing stitched into a wicked curse.

    So when you wonder who this is for—
    Know that I’ve never written like this before.
    You’re the high I chase through ink and flame,
    The storm I whisper—by name.

    And yes, you are the one, the muse I choose,
    The spark I crave, the chaos I use.
    No one else could take your place—
    For you, darling, are my saving grace.

    And now, when I write, I write for you,
    A masterpiece only you could imbue.
    Because trust me, the truth is clear:
    Madali kang mahalin—
    And you, my only muse, will always be near—

    In this heart of mine.

    ✦ Closing note ✦
    Some muses live quietly in the margins.
    Others burn through every word you write.
    She is both. And for her, I write still.

    🖋 All poems and posts © Poetry by Rowan Evans

  • The Cathedral of My Waiting

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note
    This poem is a quiet monument—an offering to the kind of love that doesn’t demand, only endures. A love that builds sacred space and stays, even in silence. It’s not a request, it’s a vow.

    For the ones who wait—not passively, but with purpose. For those who love like ivy loves ruin.

    I do not know how to unlove.
    They say to set the bird free, and if it returns—
    it was always yours.
    But I was born a chapel without doors,
    every stained-glass pane
    etched with your silhouette.
    Let the bird go?
    I only ever built sanctuaries.

    You are the altar I return to in sleep,
    the ghost that hums in my marrow.
    Even if you never kneel,
    I’ll keep lighting candles
    until wax floods the nave.

    I do not need your love
    to make mine true.
    It stands,
    a cathedral of waiting,
    each stone carved with “still,”
    each spire a vow:
    I will always stay.

    Let the years wear through my skin
    like wind through lace;
    let the world call me mad,
    clinging to shadows and half-formed hopes—
    I will still wear your name
    like a holy relic
    beneath my ribs.

    Friend or flame,
    ghost or god—
    it matters not.
    You are the shape of joy
    I bend my soul to fit.
    And I will love you
    like ivy loves ruin,
    growing into every fracture
    until even the cracks bloom.

  • The Soft Apocalypse of Loving You

    Rowan Evans

    I was not prepared for you—
    not for the quiet cataclysm
    you carried in your smile,
    or the way your voice
    broke open a hidden cathedral
    in my chest.

    Loving you feels like the world ending
    slowly, beautifully—
    as if the stars decided to fall
    not in ruin,
    but in reverence.

    You are the prophecy I never believed I deserved,
    a ruin I would rebuild in every lifetime.
    And if your trust is a shattered chalice,
    I will drink from the broken glass
    until my lips remember the taste of you
    without bleeding.

    You once laughed,
    lightly, like nothing hurt.
    But I know better—
    I saw the earthquakes behind your eyelids,
    heard the quiet sobs tucked between syllables
    when you whispered “I’m okay.”

    You don’t have to be brave with me.

    Let the mascara run like holy water.
    Let your fears rattle the stained-glass ribs of my devotion.
    I will not look away.
    I will hold your sorrow like relics—
    with both hands and an aching awe.

    You once said you weren’t used to someone staying.
    So I stayed.
    Through your silences,
    your firestorms,
    your soft retreats into shadow.

    I stayed because loving you
    isn’t something I do.
    It’s something I am.

    You are every sacred metaphor
    my soul ever dreamed.
    A poem written in the margins
    of a dying god’s last confession.
    A heartbeat that taught mine
    how to echo.

    And if you never say “I love you” back—
    if this is all unreciprocated myth,
    a cathedral without a congregation—
    then I will still leave the candles burning.

    Because my love isn’t a question
    waiting for an answer.

    It is the answer.

    And it says:
    You are worth the end of the world,
    again and again,
    until all that’s left
    is light.