Introduction

In the space between ruin and reverence, devotion becomes a sharp-edged hymn. This poem is a shrine to chaos, a confession in the language of fire and barbed wire. Read if you dare—fall willingly into the storm.

Barbed Wire Halo
Poetry by Rowan Evans

They say there must be something wrong with me—
because I crave the bite, the sting.
Yeah, I love it when you’re mean.
Spit your acid-laced psalms,
let them blister on my skin like holy fire.
I’ll wear the burn like a blessing.

Pain tastes like proof
when your mouth carves silence into me.
The ache is real—
and real is what I’ve been dying to feel.
So dig your nails into this paper-thin faith,
etch your name down my back like scripture.

You call me unworthy,
but damn it, that just makes me want you more—
like hunger gnawing at the bones of devotion.
A moth to the flame,
I keep flying into your ruin
just to see if I can light the dark.

Your halo is barbed wire, rusted and holy,
glinting above the curve of your devil horns.
You speak in ash and absolutes,
and I still beg you to speak again.
I kneel where your shadow spills—
sacrament in the shape of surrender.

So tear me down.
Whisper sins into the hollow of my throat.
I’ll still kiss you like salvation
when all you offer is the storm.
Because even ruin can feel like worship
when it’s you I’m falling for.

Explore the full archive here: [The Library of Ashes]