The third piece in the “Nocturnal” series, “Nyx’s Confession” peels back the veil of myth and reveals the vampiress’s heart. Here, the immortal becomes vulnerable — she kills to protect, yet aches to be loved for her humanity. It’s a poem about devotion through darkness, and how even monsters long to be seen as more than their hunger.
“Even monsters bleed for love.”
Nyx’s Confession Poetry by Rowan Evans (June 9th, 2024)
Fangs sunk in, drained him dry, To protect you, the diamond of my eye. You saw my humanity, not the monster I thought I was, and I love you for that.
Fangs pierced his skin, led him to his end Just to keep you safe, even if it pushed you away. But you saw me for something more, Than the monster, I thought I was.
The way you look at me, It makes me feel so alive, Like my heart still beats inside, But it only beats for you.
The scent of jasmine lingered in the air, A silent witness to the bloodshed, Its sweet perfume mingling with the metallic tang of his life, A testament to my love, my sacrifice.
I leave before the morning light, And return to you every night. I don’t know what it is about you, Got me fighting my nature just to be with you.
In the moonlit shadows, I find solace, Your presence a balm to my tormented soul. With each nightfall, the jasmine blooms, Its fragrance a reminder of the humanity you see in me.
I. Nocturnal Waltz | A Dark Romance Poem of Desire & Danger A fleeting, intoxicating moment between a femme-fatale vampiress and her human lover, where shadows, desire, and danger intertwine in a nocturnal waltz of longing and seduction.
II. Nightfall Serenade | Gothic Vampire Love Poem by Rowan Evans The second poem in the Nocturnal series — a dark, romantic serenade between a mortal woman and her vampiric lover. A haunting continuation of Nocturnal Waltz, where passion becomes devotion and the night itself listens.
If you know me in real life and you read this… no the fuck you didn’t.
Author’s Note
There’s something about her that disarms me. A magnetism wrapped in mayhem—smirks and spells and unapologetic fire. I didn’t mean to be drawn in like this. Didn’t mean to find arousal in her chaos or reverence in her rage. But here I am, offering myself like a willing sacrifice—not for her approval, not even for love, but because she moves something in me. She reflects the darkest, most delicious corners of my soul—the ones I’ve spent a lifetime hiding, or worse… watering down.
When she said she wanted him to watch her fuck another man, smiling the whole time, I didn’t hesitate. I volunteered. Not just because it turned me on (though it absolutely did), but because in that moment, I wanted to be her weapon. Her ritual. Her revenge.
It’s not just the fantasy. It’s her. The way she owns herself—raw, untamed, unfiltered. She feels like a mirror made of fire.
And maybe…
Just maybe…
I’ve always been a little flammable.
“The Muse of Mayhem: fury, desire, and chaos embodied in one magnetic figure.”
Muse of Mayhem Poetry by Rowan Evans (Written May 16th, 2025)
She laughs, and the world wilts—
a garden set ablaze by a careless smile.
I swear the shadows lean closer
just to hear her whisper curses
with venom on her tongue
and starlight in her eyes.
She is fury made flesh,
a witch with war in her hips,
and I—
I volunteer as tribute.
While you spoke of
watching him gasp his last breath
in bitter silence,
I was biting my lip in awe,
moaning at the sight of your wrath—
divine, deliberate,
beautiful.
You said you’d fuck another man
while making him watch.
You smiled.
I offered my body
like a knife to your altar.
Burn me,
bury me,
brand me—
I’ll still crawl back,
hungry for more.
No one’s ever mirrored
my taste for chaos
with such elegance,
no one’s ever made me feel
so seen
in my darkness.
You speak,
and I turn to ash
willingly.
Muse of mayhem,
witch of want,
curse me with your presence again—
I’ll beg.
I’ll bleed.
I’ll write you
into every forbidden stanza
until even the moon
blushes at your name.
This piece was not written as metaphor,
but as invocation.
It is both prayer and curse,
both hunger and hymn.
Read it aloud if you dare—
it was meant to be spoken.
Spellbound: A ritual of fire, blood, and desire. Poetry by Rowan Evans.
⛧ Invocation ⛧
Come closer— not with curiosity, not with caution, but with hunger threaded through your bones. This is no simple poem, but a summoning of what burns beneath your skin, beneath your breath. Read it with your pulse, your shadow, your ache.
⛧ The Spell ⛧
By ash and thorn, by blood and breath, I call you close through life and death. No leash, no cage, no forced command— just whispered want and open hand.
I stir the night with sacred fire, a potion laced with raw desire. Your name upon my lips, a hymn— a sin I wear upon my skin.
With salt and smoke, with tongue and flame, I bend the stars to spell your name. No tricks, no traps, no charm that binds— just truth that haunts the heart and mind.
I mark the path with velvet thread, where softer souls have feared to tread. Come to me not out of need, but hunger only I can feed.
Let others beg for skin and thrill— I want the ache your silence kills. I want the pulse behind your eyes, the smirk that cuts, the truth that hides.
I want the burn, the bite, the bruise, the wild thing you never lose. The wicked grin that makes me fall, and rise again to take it all.
So if you come, come not afraid— come as the curse I gladly prayed. A holy sin, a fever dream— my altar etched in midnight gleam.
And when we meet, if fate allows, no crowns, no chains, no hollow vows— just soul to soul, and breath to breath, our magic born of life and death.
So mote it be. So let it start. You are the flame that owns my heart.
⛧ Benediction ⛧
Go now, with smoke on your tongue and fire in your chest. Carry this hunger like a secret sigil, let it curl beneath your ribs, let it mark your nights and mornings. The spell is spoken, the circle unbroken, and what was named cannot be unnamed.
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.
Sanguine Serenade is a dark hymn to the exquisite tension between craving and surrender — where desire tastes like blood, and love flirts with danger beneath a velvet night. This poem confesses the fierce, fragile pulse of passion that binds immortal souls, a sanctuary for those who find beauty in the forbidden and the blood-stained. Let it consume you.
Hex Nightshade’s Sanguine Serenade—a seductive dance of desire and shadow beneath the moon’s eternal gaze.
Invocation
Come, children of shadow and flame, Wanderers beneath the moon’s slow burn. Step softly into the night’s velvet cathedral, Where whispered secrets drip like wine, And fangs gleam with promises sharp and sweet. Let your breath catch in the hush— Tonight, desire is our sacrament.
Sanguine Serenade Poetry by HxNightshade
In velvet cloaks and whispered sighs, Where shadows writhe and moonlight lies, A vampire queen with eyes ablaze, Hunts her prey through twilight’s maze.
Her steps—soft silk on ancient stone, A breathless hush, a stolen moan. She tastes the pulse, so pure, so sweet, A dangerous dance where she and longing meet.
Fangs like pearls in twilight’s gleam, A kiss that burns like a fevered dream. Her touch—a velvet blade, so cold, A story of lust in whispers told.
Lips stain deep with crimson wine, A kiss eternal, dark, divine. Beneath her spell, the mortal quakes, In moonlit chambers, passion wakes.
Skin to skin—a reckless dance, Of fear, desire, forbidden romance. Echoes of whispers, breaths entwined, Love’s dark sanctuary, souls combined.
Veins pulse with the nectar’s flow, A crimson stain, a binding glow. Caught in the night, in passion’s thrall, Two hearts become one shadowed call.
In twilight’s hush, release is found, A union where all fears unbound. In the embrace of dark and light, Love’s eternal flame ignites the night.
Benediction
Go wrapped in velvet shadows and whispered lust,
Your spirit aflame with the night’s sweet trust.
May every breath echo with promises made—
A serenade eternal, fierce, unafraid.
Carry the ache, the hunger, the fire within,
For love that lives in darkness knows no end.
Read Next:A Journey into Hymns & Heresies…
Hymn & Heresy Forgive me, Mother— not for the shadows I cradle, but for loving them too fiercely; for becoming both hymn and heresy.
A sacred confession where lust burns like holy fire and rebellion is the only prayer.
In every confessional verse, I trespass across sacred lines— naming darkness holy, letting grace bruise. What follows is not salvation, nor surrender— but something stranger, softer, and far more true: love that neither redeems nor condemns, only witnesses.
Luminescence & Shadow A Forbidden Litany
Poetry by Rowan Evans
Luminescence & Shadow: where confession becomes devotion.
Intro: In the Mouth of the Divine and the Damned
In every hymn of light, a shadow hums beneath the breath. In every curse of darkness, a spark strains to survive. We are children of paradox: the angel who aches for midnight, the demon who dares to thirst for dawn. This is our confession—carved in ash and grace, a love letter scrawled across ruin and reverence.
I. Angel’s Soliloquy Sanctified Ache
I dwell where seraphs weave gold into dawn, where gardens shimmer with dew spun from prayer, where hymns rise like incense—and still, my chest feels hollow.
Even beneath these alabaster wings, something restless coils in silence: a hunger no choir can soothe, no benediction can quiet.
By moonlight, I trace the ivory spires and wonder what waits beyond the gates— what secret burns in that forbidden dusk. In the mirror of heaven, I see my own doubt: halo flickering, longing trembling like an unspoken psalm.
I close my eyes to holy light— and all I see is a silhouette crowned in midnight flame.
II. Demon’s Soliloquy Hallowed Hunger
I haunt cathedrals built of bone and broken vows, where soot clings to every breath, and ruin is scripture. Wings black as regret, heart scorched by eternity— I was forged for destruction, baptized in shadow.
Yet even in this cursed marrow, I taste the ghost of something gentler: a warmth that coils between rage and ruin, a light I dare not name.
In every ember, I see her face— untouched by ash, yet carrying a sorrow I know in my marrow. Her grace calls to my monstrosity— not to cleanse it, but to cradle it.
I was taught to scorn the heavens— but my darkness bends toward her, like dusk leaning into dawn.
III. First Meeting Eclipse of Flesh and Faith
[Angel] I stepped past paradise and felt the veil break. Breath caught in my throat— she stood there, wreathed in night, every scar a prayer unanswered.
Her gaze stripped me bare of sanctity; my wings trembled, not from fear— but from recognition.
[Demon] I watched light cross the threshold, a vision I never dared summon. She glowed like promise, yet her eyes were raw, haunted by the same hunger that gnawed my ribcage.
For a heartbeat, shadow and radiance touched— our pulses discordant, yet symphonic.
[Together] We spoke not in words, but in exhales: two broken altars bending toward each other, drawn by the gravity of what should never be.
IV. Dual Longing Benediction of Ache
[Angel] In the hush of dawn, I whisper prayers not to my God—but to her absence. Her shadow stains every hymn; her fire warms the marrow of my doubt.
Even grace tastes like ashes now; holiness feels hollow without her silhouette beside me.
[Demon] In the abyss, her memory flickers like dying light. I claw at stone, find only emptiness. Every scream turns to a plea: let me see her once more.
The weight of my damnation sharpens the ache— yet still, I cherish it: it means she touched me.
[Together] Apart, yet bound by ache, our confessions echo through realms unseen. Even the distance becomes devotion.
V. Fall & Rise Communion of Ruin and Reverence
[Angel] When heaven cast me out—wings singed to bone— I fell; yet my heart soared toward her. In ruin, I found my truest prayer: her name, whispered in fevered breath.
[Demon] When she fell, the abyss trembled. I caught her—not to save, but to share the fall. Together, we knelt in shadow, two exiles crowned in each other’s devotion.
[Together] We kissed with bloodied lips, made holy what was once forbidden. She stained my darkness with grace; I inked her light with shadow.
In our union, dawn and dusk entwined— not to destroy, but to create a new dusk: a twilight where even angels and demons may confess love without shame.
Outro: The Gospel of Contradiction
Call it blasphemy, call it salvation— but know this: our scars became scripture; our fall became our rising. For in each other’s arms, light loved darkness without wanting to change it, and shadow loved light without wanting to dim it.
And somewhere beyond paradise and perdition, our confessions still burn— an eternal psalm of luminescence and shadow.
Closing Note
In the end, this was never meant to be read as doctrine, but as devotion: a testament to what blooms in shadow, what aches in light, and what love dares to name holy even when the world would call it heresy.
May it find you—whether angel, demon, or something beautifully in between— and remind you: your confessions, too, are worthy of ink and flame.
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:
Poetry by Rowan Evans 