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Poetry by Rowan Evans

Tag: fear of intimacy

  • Lantern in the Room – A Poem About Trauma, Love, and Inner Darkness

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This piece wasn’t planned.

    It came out in one sitting–somewhere between thought and feeling, where things don’t always organize themselves neatly. It’s messy in the way real reflection tends to be.

    There’s a version of me that still exists in that room. The one surrounded by noise, by doubt, by everything that hasn’t fully let go yet.

    And for a long time, I thought the goal was to get out of that room entirely.

    To silence it. To leave it behind.

    But that’s not what happened.

    Instead, I learned how to sit in it differently.

    To see the shadows for what they are–not threats, but remnants. Not something to fear, but something to understand.

    And somewhere along the way, I realized something else–

    that I wasn’t alone in that space anymore.

    This piece is about that shift.

    Not from the darkness to light…
    but from fear to awareness.

    — Rowan Evans

    Person holding a glowing lantern in a dark empty room surrounded by shadowy figures, symbolizing inner demons and self-reflection.
    Even in the darkest rooms, a single light is enough to face what once felt impossible.

    Lantern in the Room
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I sit in an empty room—
    but I’m not alone here.

    It’s me, myself
    and the demons I hide.

    Remnants
    of a shattered mind,

    scattered across
    endless timelines.

    A life of possibility,
    held back by humility—
    and a lack of confidence.

    I don’t know
    how to take a compliment.

    What makes it worse is—
    I know my worth…
    but I question
    how anyone else could.

    I don’t let them
    get close enough to know.

    I get just close enough—
    close enough to know it’s real.

    Then I pull back—
    because I’m scared to feel.

    I’ve been hurt before.

    And that hurt—
    it festered,
    turned to rot.

    It spread
    inside my chest,
    until there was nothing left—

    just fear and doubt.

    In my head,
    they shout.

    I just wanted them out.

    And then—

    her.

    Her,
    with the voice
    that cuts through
    the fog.

    Her,
    with the eyes
    that light up the night—
    they brighten my life.

    Her…
    it’s always been her.

    Since the moment
    she appeared.
    It felt like—
    addiction.

    I couldn’t get enough.

    And I ask myself—
    is this love?

    I used to think
    I knew what that was.

    Now every thought
    revolves around her.

    Even when I drift,
    the thought of her
    brings me back to center.

    She’s the tether—
    a lighthouse
    in stormy weather.

    Just by existing,
    she makes me better.

    She didn’t save me.
    She didn’t fix me—

    she changed my perspective.

    That’s it.

    Now—
    I can’t picture
    what life was like before.

    It feels distant.

    Like a version of history
    that didn’t happen to me.

    But it did.

    That’s where my scars
    come from.

    It’s where the demons
    were born.

    The voices that whisper—
    the thoughts that scream—

    is this a nightmare
    or a dream?

    Because I’m still terrified.
    I’d be lying if I said otherwise.

    So I return to the room—
    lantern in hand.

    The shadows don’t scare me anymore.

    They’re just part
    of the narrative now.

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

  • Not Her—The Echoes | A Poem About Trauma, Trust, and Unlearning Fear

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    There’s a difference between what’s happening now… and what your body remembers.

    Sometimes the hardest part of connection isn’t the other person–it’s everything that came before them.

    The learned reactions. The instinct to pull away. The quiet voice that says this will go wrong too, even when there’s no real evidence that it will.

    This piece comes from that space.

    From recognizing the difference between someone who is safe… and the echoes of people who weren’t.

    And from the understanding that healing isn’t just knowing the truth–

    it’s about teaching your instincts to believe it.

    — Rowan Evans

    Person surrounded by shadowy figures from the past while facing a calm glowing figure ahead, symbolizing trauma and trust
    Not every fear belongs to the present.

    Not Her—The Echoes
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I have a simple question
    I keep asking myself—
    why do you hide?

    When you want connection,
    why stay inside?

    You want to reach out,
    but you stay in your mind.

    Why?

    Well,
    the truth is—
    I hide to protect myself.

    It’s what I learned
    worked for me.

    When someone
    feels too close,
    I retreat.

    I used to open up,
    be vulnerable.
    I would share
    my internal world—

    then it was used
    against me.

    That’s tragic—
    but she didn’t do it.

    I know that.
    You think I don’t know that?

    I’m well aware
    she wasn’t the one.

    That’s what makes this so hard.

    I’m fighting habit,
    instinct—
    and I don’t say that
    to be dramatic.

    I’m not running from her.

    I’m running from echoes—
    old shadows wearing new faces,
    old wounds pretending
    to be present danger.

    I know she isn’t them.
    I know she isn’t the hands
    that taught me silence.

    But instinct doesn’t ask permission.

    It just pulls the alarm,
    slams the door,
    locks the ribs
    around the heart

    before I can say,
    “wait… this is different.”

    I’m not hiding from her.

    I’m hiding from the memory
    of being punished
    for being real.

    And unlearning that—
    is its own kind of bravery.

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