Some confessions are too tender to say aloud. Sometimes the ink knows them before the voice does.
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.
Confessional, flustered, and honest—this poem captures the way love can unravel us, make our thoughts stumble, and leave us quietly devoted. Every word is a small truth, written in real time as emotions take over.
“Thoughts spilled across pages, heart tangled in quiet devotion.”
Flustered AF Poetry by Rowan Evans
Listen—this is odd for me. I don’t normally do this— I’m not usually this vulnerable.
(What am I saying? Yes I am. I’m a confessional poet; all I do is vulnerability.)
But you’ve got me flustered. You’re the static in my brain. I can’t think, can’t speak, until I hear you say my name. Then the words just stumble out.
I don’t think you understand— the kind of power you’ve got over me. Wrapped around your finger? Yeah, I am. You say jump, I say how high— You say kneel, and I don’t question why. If you want me to bark? (Woof!) I’ll become a dog for you. I mean—I’ll be loyal to you.
(Did I just write a line about barking, then say I would be a dog, just to say how loyal I’d be? Yep, sure did.)
I’d always be excited to see you. And you could call me all sorts of names— if you used the right tone of voice, it wouldn’t matter what you were saying. I’d still be happy to be there with you.
And I know, this is all kind of weird… The line about barking, and being a dog, just to set up a comment about loyalty— but I can’t think straight, because you’ve got me flustered beyond reason, and the thoughts are just pouring out. With no rhyme or reason, it’s almost too conversational.
(Have I even used a metaphor yet?)
Inhale. Exhale. Breathe.
You’ve done this a thousand times before, Rowan. Why is this one so different? This isn’t even the first time you’ve written about love like this. It’s not even the first time you’ve written about loving her—like this.
There was… I Love You— Enough to Go Silent, Enough to Break Willingly, and Enough To Learn You. Beautiful Little Cobra, or My Red Flags, and Perfect—For Me.
(That one’s about how you’re perfectly imperfect, but you’re perfect for me.)
The Prayer of Two Tongues, and so many more— I just haven’t had the chance to share. Maybe it’s because I’m scared. So I turned them into— Letters Never Sent.
I mean… I want you to know how I feel, but I don’t want to push you away. I don’t want to lose what we have, yet… I also want it to grow into more.
It’s safe to say, I suspect you don’t feel the same, and you probably never will. (And that’s okay. Really.)
This is just me… bleeding thoughts on a page. And even as I write this to you, I know you’ll probably never read it. Not because you wouldn’t, but because I’m too scared to send it.
(And it’s really long. I know that can be overwhelming. I tried to keep it in check, but the words just kept coming.)
Inhale— and now it’s quiet again. The static fades. Exhale— your name still hums behind my ribs. I tell myself that’s enough. For now, it has to be.
So I don’t send it. But I mean every word.
If you enjoyed this piece, you might also enjoy my other poems about being flustered…
[Rewired (Flustered & Yours)] A raw, breathless confession about what happens when someone gets so deep under your skin that even your lungs forget how to work. A poem about fluster, desire, and the kind of connection that rewires you from the inside out.
This one’s for my favorite Filipina — a little ode to laughs, love, and high-high vibes. Pop-culture winks included; if you understand them, you get bonus points. 😉
High-High: A poetic tribute to love, laughter, and devotion—Rowan Evans.
High-High Poetry by Rowan Evans
You’re my favorite Filipina, Attitude stronger than Mary Jane. Girl, you get me high-high, rising on your laugh, floating in your flame— I feel the buzz just saying your name.
Who needs drugs when you’re my bliss? I could overdose from a single kiss. Girl, you get me high-high, like Red Bull, you give me wings— so watch me fly.
I was sober til the day I met you, now I’m addicted, it’s true. Roll up your smile, spark the flame, girl, you get me high-high, Every time you say my name.
Yeah, you get me high-high, like it’s Puffy, Ami Yumi. I mean, you make me want to Park— myself right next to you, like my name is Sandara.
Trust—I’ll never let you feel alone. Mahal Kita. Mahal Ko. I’ll take your laugh, inject it straight into my veins— let it feed directly into my brain.
Girl, you get me high-high, and you’re my favorite Filipina. You’re my favorite munchie to turn to— girl, you’re the drug and the snack.
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.
Poetry by Rowan Evans 