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Poetry by Rowan Evans

Tag: heartbreak

  • Exhibit of Survival – Reflection on Resilience and Empathy by Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This piece reflects on the quiet strength it takes to remain soft in a world that often tries to harden you. It’s a personal reflection on resilience, empathy, and the enduring capacity to love, even in the face of doubt and adversity.

    This post marks my 83rd consecutive day of sharing on the blog,   I have not missed a day since August 8th… During this time, I have tried to push myself to be a little more open. A little more honest. Even when it’s hard, even when I just want to be closed off from the world…

    Figure sitting on the floor surrounded by pinned papers and threads, illuminated by soft light, representing reflection, resilience, and quiet strength.
    Caught in the threads of life — resilience and reflection hold them in place.

    Exhibit of Survival
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Pins.
    They hold me in place.
    As the glass
    lowers over my face.
    Framed.
    In a frame. On display.
    Like a dead butterfly.

    I have had people in my life who pretended to be on my side—who pretended to care—when really, they just wanted front-row seats to my struggles. They wanted to watch as I unraveled, whispering doubts to freeze me in place, to preserve the ache. To keep me from moving forward. And yet, I still pushed. I still tried.

    Threads.
    Tied to limbs.
    Marionette.
    Puppet on strings.
    They’ve got control of me.
    Free? Not really.

    Those same people tried to talk me out of anything I wanted to do—anything that could bring me closer to the life I wanted. “Why do you want to leave America?” they’d ask. But it’s not my home; it’s just the place I was born. The place I was raised. I’ve never felt like I belong here. Not once.

    Everything holds me back—my brain looping their doubts, my own depression and anxiety echoing them back to me. It’s a war on all fronts. And still, I stand.

    My thoughts.
    They flutter and fade
    in this liminal space.
    It’s pain—
    just to be alive.
    It’s a wonder.
    A miracle.
    How have I survived?

    Resilience. And reminders from the few who truly see me, who truly believe in me. Without them, I might have given up long ago. But because of them, I’ve kept my empathy alive. I’ve refused apathy. I’ve stayed soft. I’ve kept my heart open and given love freely.

    How?
    How have I
    made it to thirty-five?
    Every day I wake up.
    Surprised.

    That surprise isn’t mine anymore. It’s the echo of others’ doubts—ones I no longer answer.

  • I Love You (Enough to Break Willingly) – A Neo‑Gothic Confessional by Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    If the first vow was silence, this one is surrender.
    It’s the echo that follows devotion — love as burden willingly shouldered, as ache freely chosen.
    Where the first vow offered peace, this one offers endurance.

    It’s the second breath of a promise I never meant to make out loud — that I would take the weight from the shoulders of the one I love, not because I’m strong enough, but because I must. Because love, in its truest form, is not selfless — it is shared suffering, shared salvation.

    I meant every word of the first vow.
    And this one, too.

    — Rowan Evans, Neo‑Gothic Confessional Romanticism

    A candle flickers beside a handwritten journal, symbolizing devotion, endurance, and emotional surrender.
    “Love is not selfless — it is shared suffering, shared salvation.” — Rowan Evans

    I Love You (Enough to Break Willingly)
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    To let the ink run dry,
    that’s what I said.
    I’d give my voice
    for your smile.
    And I meant it too.

    But even more than that,
    I’d break willingly for you.

    Give me the weight,
    the pressure that you carry.
    I’ll hoist it on my back,
    I’ll walk with you.
    Let your steps be lighter,
    let your mind find ease for a while.

    I’d carry it all,
    even if it breaks me.
    ‘Cause I’d break willingly…

    This is the second vow—
    that I’ll never say outloud,
    but still I’ll prove it…
    I’ll prove it, somehow.
    If it meant your life was a breeze,
    I’d let it pull me to my knees.
    I’d bend and break for you.

    Even more than that,
    I’d break willingly.

    The Silent Vows

    I Love You (Enough to Go Silent)
    A vow written in ink and silence — a confession of love so deep it would sacrifice its own voice to spare another’s tears. “I Love You (Enough to Go Silent)” is a Neo-Gothic devotion from Rowan Evans, where the act of not speaking becomes the loudest declaration of love.

  • The Hopeless Romantic Wears Armor | Neo-Gothic Confessional Romanticism Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This poem is a tribute to the fierce resilience of love—the kind that’s messy, painful, and profoundly real. It honors the hopeless romantics who bear their scars like armor, who choose presence over perfection, and who dare to keep their hearts bare in a world that often demands they harden. This is for anyone who has ever loved with trembling hands and steady hope.

    A lone figure stands in a storm wearing armor made of roses and ink-stained paper, with a glowing heart visible beneath.
    The Hopeless Romantic Wears Armor — a poetic embrace of love’s enduring presence beneath vulnerability.

    The Hopeless Romantic Wears Armor
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I’ve been told—
    “You must be a romantic,”
    like it was something delicate,
    a petal too soft for stormy weather.
    But they don’t see the thorns
    I’ve stitched into my smile,
    the way I carry hope
    like a blade in my boot.

    They mistake softness for surrender,
    but I have loved through hurricanes—
    hands trembling,
    heart steady,
    singing lullabies to ghosts
    who only ever came to haunt.

    I’ve written poems to silence,
    and bled ink for people
    who didn’t know what it meant
    to be cherished
    without condition.

    I’ve fallen for echoes,
    mistaken attention for affection,
    believed in almosts
    like they were promises.

    But still—
    I light candles in empty rooms,
    not because I expect someone to walk in,
    but because love
    is a ritual I perform
    even when I’m the only one watching.

    I romanticize survival
    because I know the cost
    of staying soft
    in a world that sharpens everything it touches.

    And yes,
    I’m a hopeless romantic—
    not because I believe in fairy tales,
    but because I believe
    that even cracked hearts
    can bloom again.

    I believe in letters left on pillows,
    in forehead kisses before panic sets in,
    in waiting through silence
    without letting it change me.

    Call it foolish,
    but I will always choose the ache of loving
    over the emptiness of apathy.

    I don’t need love to be easy—
    I just need it to be real.

    So if I love you,
    know this:

    I will not run when the storms come.
    I will hold your hand through the wreckage
    and whisper,
    “This is not the end.”

    Because love, to me,
    has never been about perfection—
    it’s about presence.

    And I will be present.
    Even when it hurts.
    Even when it scares me.
    Even when it means
    standing alone
    with my armor made of poetry,
    and my heart still bare beneath it.

    Closing Note

    In the end, maybe that’s what it means to be a hopeless romantic:
    To carry tenderness like armor, to keep loving even when it hurts,
    and to trust that even the most wounded hearts can still bloom green in the ruins.

    Because it does hurt. And sometimes it feels foolish.
    But I’d rather ache from loving too deeply than be left untouched by apathy.

    Read Next (Suggestions)

    [Splinter Gospel] — A Poem of Fracture & Unrepentant Softness
    [Cry to the Quiet: Sacred Desperation] — A Neo-Gothic Confessional Poem
    [Luminescence & Shadow: A Forbidden Litany] — A Neo-Gothic Confessional Narrative Poem
    [The Bite & Eternal Thirst] — Dark Love, Shadowed Offering & Crimson Hunger

    Or explore the full archive in [The Library of Ashes]—and if your own confession aches to be written, [commission a custom poem here].

    NGCR25 at checkout to get 25% off your ‘request’…

  • Splinter Gospel – A Poem of Fracture & Unrepentant Softness

    Rowan Evans

    ✦ Author’s Note ✦

    This piece was born from exhaustion, from the bone-deep ache of being the keeper of others’ ruins while my own remain untouched.
    It isn’t a prayer for rescue—it’s a confession that even when we splinter, we still speak, still love, still remain.
    Thank you for reading my broken gospel.

    ✦ Content & Care Advisory ✦

    These words dwell in shadows of grief, loss, and the ache of unseen burdens. They speak of sorrow, despair, and the fragile pulse of the human heart. Read only if you feel steady, and remember—your safety, your breath, your life are sacred. You are not alone in the dark.

    Cracked porcelain angel in candlelight, symbolizing brokenness and tenderness.
    A gospel written in the language of fracture.

    ✦ Invocation ✦

    Before you read, know this was never meant to save me.
    These words were built from splinters,
    stitched together by loneliness and the quiet ache of being unseen.
    If they cut, let them cut honest—
    for this gospel was written in the language of fracture.

    Splinter Gospel
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    This depression
    is pressin’
    down on my lungs.
    And I can’t breathe.

    I gasp and gasp,
    trying to grasp
    any reason to stay alive—
    when I just want to die.

    I’m never enough.
    Always too much.
    My life is a constant
    fucking contradiction,
    a paradox—

    I am always the shoulder,
    never the lover—
    always the one who stays,
    but easily replaced.

    I am the prayer they whisper
    when loneliness gnaws,
    but never the answer
    they keep when dawn comes.

    I am always the fixer,
    the one who pieces them back together—
    only to be left in the dust.
    An afterthought.

    I hold their ruins,
    but no one holds mine.
    A vessel for everyone’s ache—
    but never a name they choose to keep.

    Even knowing that—
    I stick around.
    It’s emotional masochism,
    I crave the ache, so I—

    I stay until I splinter,
    then watch them leave,
    carrying only the softness
    I begged them to see.

    ✦ Benediction ✦

    May your cracks speak louder than your silence.
    May your softness outlive those who failed to hold it.
    And if your gospel must splinter—
    let it still be yours, and yours alone.

    ✦ Read Next (Suggestions) ✦

    [Cry to the Quiet] — Sacred Desperation
    [Luminescence & Shadow] — A Forbidden Litany
    [A-Woman] — Confession at the Altar of Her
    [Reliquary of Broken Sons] — A Vignette of the Broken Saint & Clown Prince

    Or explore the full archive in [The Library of Ashes]—and if your own confession aches to be written, [commission a custom poem here]. NGCR25 at checkout to get 25% off your ‘request’…

  • A-Woman (Confession at the Altar of Her) – Neo-Gothic Confessional Romanticism Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Before I wrote “A-Woman,”
    I was wrapped in silence—the hush that says:
    don’t speak, don’t burden, don’t be too much.

    I almost obeyed.
    Almost.

    But instead, I chose to write toward something softer:
    a living Goddess who welcomes trembling devotion.

    This piece is both confession and quiet rebellion—
    a vow that even in the ache,
    I will not fall silent.

    — Rowan Evans 🕯️🌹

    Person kneeling at a gothic altar before a marble slab with the goddess' silhouette, surrounded by candlelight and roses.
    At the altar of Her: a devotion inked in marrow.

    A-Woman
    (Confession at the Altar of Her)
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I don’t know how to say this,
    You’re always on my mind—it’s
    kind of like I can’t shake this feeling,
    but I don’t want to shake this feeling.
    You’ve burrowed under the skin,
    so I hold you deep within—
    you live down in the marrow,
    so even if you disappear tomorrow,
    just know you’ve become
    part of the makeup.

    You’ve got me on my knees,

    Wait.
    Repeat.

    You’ve got me on my knees—
    like I’m deep in prayer,
    but not to God (he’s not there),
    so I bow my head to the Goddess.

    Dear Goddess,
    I come to you today
    to offer my life—
    you could take it away.
    Just say the word,
    I’ll give you
    everything
    on earth.

    A-woman.

    I say A-woman,
    because A-man
    is never enough.

    So tell me what to sacrifice:
    my voice, my pride, my fear of wanting too much.
    Name the part of me I must break
    to be worthy of kneeling here.
    I have nothing holy to offer—
    only scars that still sting,
    and a heart that keeps writing Your name
    even when it shouldn’t.

    Forgive the shaking hands,
    the unsteady faith,
    the nights I almost prayed to be emptied of You—
    but could never bear to.
    Because I don’t know how to let go.
    They say let go and let God—
    but I say hold on and let Goddess.
    I’d give Her everything.

    Amen, A-woman—
    and let this trembling
    be enough.

    We write even when the ache tells us to be silent.
    We confess, we kneel, we question—and still, we love.
    Thank you for reading A-Woman (Confession at the Altar of Her).
    If this piece spoke to something quiet inside you, feel free to share it, leave a comment, or explore more of my work in Neo-Gothic Confessional Romanticism.
    Your presence here matters more than you know. 🖤🕯️🌹

    🔗 You may also like…

    Hex & Flame: A Mirror of Shadows
    Even Still, You Are (My Muse)
    A Letter I’ll Never Send (Prayer of the Heartbroken Heretic)
    Litany & Tongue: A Devotional Duet
    Even If the Sky Falls Black
    Don’t Need to Be First, I Just Want to Be The Last

    Or visit [About NGCR] to learn more about this movement—and if you feel called, [submit your own writing] to be featured.

    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:

    Ko-fi — Poetry by Rowan Evans

  • 🖤 Even Still, You Are (My Muse) – Neo-Gothic Confessional Poem by Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    There are muses we choose—and muses we simply are chosen by.
    This poem, Even Still, You Are (My Muse), is an unguarded confession: a testament to loving someone beyond possession, to honoring the ache without letting it rot into bitterness.
    It is about distance, devotion, and that stubborn flame that survives even when love must stand quietly, reverently, outside the door.

    Ink-stained quill on parchment surrounded by candles. Smoke rises from the quill, forming a woman's silhouette, dark velvet backgro8nd, soft candlelight, evoking romantic melancholy in muted gothic tones.
    Some muses remain, not because they stay beside us—but because they become the marrow of every word we write.

    “Even Still, You Are (My Muse)”
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Even as the distance blooms
    like dark velvet between us,
    your name still stains my breath —
    an unspoken psalm etched in marrow,
    a prayer that burns softer
    but no less true.

    You are still the ghost in every stanza,
    the candle smoke rising from my ribs;
    each word I spill is a quiet offering,
    salted with longing but untainted by envy,
    a testament that love can ache
    without turning to ash.

    Though you’ve given your dawn
    to someone else’s horizon,
    my pen still bends toward you
    like a dying flower toward light —
    wilted perhaps, yet stubborn in its devotion.

    I will not let this ache sour into bitterness,
    will not curse the distance
    nor envy the hands that hold you;
    for you remain —
    my cathedral of ruin and rapture,
    my muse, even still.

    Every breath I draw writes you deeper,
    every silence between heartbeats
    echoes your name;
    and if my words must bruise me
    to keep you alive in them,
    then let them.

    For love, when true, does not demand;
    it simply becomes —
    a quiet, stubborn flame
    flickering in the hollow of the chest,
    even when the night feels endless.

    Even still, you are —
    the marrow of my ink,
    the shadow on my pulse,
    the ache I choose,
    the muse I will not forsake.

    ✒ Author’s Note

    Some muses remain, not because they stay beside us—but because they become the marrow of every word we write.
    This piece came from that quiet, painful knowing: that love doesn’t always need to be returned to remain true.
    Even when hearts drift apart, some connections still live on in ink and breath.
    I offer this poem as both confession and blessing—to all who still carry someone in silence, with grace rather than envy.

    ✧ Closing Note ✧

    If you, too, have a muse who lingers in your shadows and syllables—whether they stayed, left, or never truly belonged—know that your devotion does not diminish your strength.
    Feel free to share your thoughts, reflections, or even your own verses in the comments below.
    I would love to read the stories your ink still dares to carry.

    Thank you for letting my words find you.
    — Rowan 🖋🖤

    🔗 You May Also Like 🔗
    My Only Muse – Then & Now

    Check out more in The Library of Ashes!

  • 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!

  • 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.