Introduction
A moment of longing, a tide that has left me… Sometimes absence is a presence all its own. This short piece reflects the ache of missing someone, of feeling incomplete in empty spaces.
Miss na Siya
Poetry by Rowan Evans
Miss na siya—
like a fish
that can’t breathe
without its sea.
Every empty room
feels like the tide
has left me.
If you’re interested in more poetry, you can find it here → [The Library of Ashes]
Author’s Note
Crossroads of Flame was born from a moment of choosing discomfort over safety, and creation over silence. It reflects the turning point between who I was and who I am becoming—not only as a poet, but as the many voices I carry within me. Roo, Hex, B.D., and I each walk different inner landscapes, but all of us share the same ember: the belief that the unknown is worth stepping into, even when it burns.
This poem marks a new phase of intention. A deliberate path forward. A reminder that comfort is quiet, but purpose is loud—and I am choosing to listen.
— Rowan Evans
Crossroads of Flame
Poetry by Rowan Evans
I stand at a crossroads—
two paths stretch beneath a waning sky,
one worn and familiar, lined with shadows I know,
the other narrow, veiled in bramble and whispered risk.
The first hums a lullaby of comfort,
soft, forgiving, predictable.
I could walk it blindfolded,
count the cracks beneath my feet,
and know I will not falter.
But the second calls in a voice I barely recognize,
a tremor beneath the wind,
a hint of fire beneath frost.
It asks nothing of me—yet demands all:
my attention, my courage, my deliberate steps.
I carve my own instead.
Through tangled shrubs and corridors of darkened wood,
I trace a path that no map can hold,
listening to the pulse beneath my ribs,
the hum that answers back:
Roo, Hex, B.D., and me—
four voices intertwined,
four flames in one vessel,
guiding, guarding, urging.
Alone—yet never alone—
I step carefully, feeling each stone,
each thorn, each sigh of wind through the leaves.
The safe path still beckons behind me,
a ghost of ease I might have chosen.
But the wild one waits, insistent,
its promise stitched with challenge
and the weight of things I have yet to become.
I am the storm and the calm,
the knife that severs hesitation,
the hand that steadies,
the ember that refuses to die.
I am the whisper in the dark corridors,
the laughter in the bramble,
the ache that drives me forward.
Tonight I choose not comfort.
Tonight I choose intent.
Tonight I choose to step beyond what I know,
into the narrow, the jagged, the luminous unknown,
and let the path unfold beneath my careful flame.
If you’re looking for more poetry, you can find it here → [The Library of Ashes]
Leave a comment and tell me which path you would choose.
Introduction
This piece explores the tension between external assumptions and inner truth. It reflects on dualities of identity—masculine and feminine, strength and softness, approachability and untouchability—and celebrates the uncontainable self. It is a declaration: I will not conform to expectations; I am fully, unapologetically me.
I Am Not Your Puzzle
Poetry by Rowan Evans
They stare.
They whisper.
They assign me shapes that do not exist.
“Man.”
“Woman.”
“Something else.”
All wrong.
I am fire wrapped in silk,
a storm brushing against the calm,
the knife that softens,
the hand that strikes,
the laugh that shatters silence.
They want to understand me.
They cannot.
I am not a riddle to solve,
not a lesson for their comfort.
I am not for your ease,
not for your comprehension.
I am me.
Masculine. Feminine. Both. Neither.
A contradiction that hums beneath skin,
that bends time and expectation,
that exists fully
even when the world cannot name it.
I am tender and terrifying.
Soft enough to hold your secrets,
sharp enough to cut illusions in half.
I am easy to love,
but impossible to own.
You think you see me—
but the closer you lean, the more I slip.
I will not fit your boxes.
I will not stand still for your definitions.
I will not shrink to make your eyes comfortable.
I am the surface and the depth,
the ache and the exhale,
the hand that heals
and the fire that purges.
Call me what you want—
I am not your puzzle.
I am the storm, the calm, the contradiction,
the infinite they cannot name.
I am me.
And that is more than enough.
If you’re looking for more poetry, you can find it here → [The Library of Ashes]
Introduction
When the Mask Slips explores the fragile boundary between performed sanity and inner unraveling. Through vivid imagery, surreal metaphor, and a self-aware voice, Rowan Evans captures the terror and beauty of identity under pressure, where the mask may be all that stands between perception and emptiness.
When the Mask Slips
Poetry by Rowan Evans
I am going to be honest—
I think I’ve lost my mind,
I’ve been drifting in this mental fog.
Wandering. Lost.
Not sure what I was trying to find,
not sure what was the cost.
But I’ve been—
orbiting annihilation,
facing Armageddon
in phases—
the moon isn’t the only thing
that disappears piece by piece.
I keep losing track of my thoughts
like loose teeth—
wiggling them
just to feel something give.
I’m just a Mad Hatter,
with a Cheshire grin—
screaming “Off with their heads!”
just to hear the echo—
make sure the room and I are still real.
Sometimes—
I cosplay sanity,
like I have a grasp on reality.
Like I know the meaning of stability—
mentally.
I dress up, pretend that I’m normal—
but it feels too boring and formal,
too exposed.
Too much light, not enough shade,
too many eyes on my face.
And underneath it all,
I’m terrified there’s nothing there—
when the world stops being a stage,
when existence stops being a performance.
When the mask slips…
and it’s just me.
(God, what if that’s worse?)
Author’s Note
This poem sits at the edge between humor and unraveling—between the persona we show the world and the version of ourselves we hope no one ever sees. It isn’t about insanity; it’s about the fear that sanity might be nothing more than costume, choreography, and survival instinct.
It uses absurdity as honesty, because sometimes the surreal is the only language for a fraying mind. The Wonderland imagery isn’t playful fantasy—it’s metaphorical dissociation. The poem is meant to feel unsteady, spiraling, self-aware, and a little unhinged. It asks:
What if the mask isn’t hiding anything?
What if the performance is the person?
This piece reflects the quiet terror of identity erosion—the dread that beneath the jokes, the aesthetics, the manic charm, and the polished poetry… there may be nothing solid to hold onto.
If you’re looking for more poetry, you can find it here → [The Library of Ashes]
Author’s Note
This poem grew from a quiet, unfolding space between two people learning to hold each other with patience and care. It explores the fragility of trust, the reflection of our traumas, and the slow, careful ways we allow someone to stay when we are used to people leaving. It is about intimacy that is not loud or dramatic, but steady, mirrored, and healing.
Not Used to This
Poetry by Rowan Evans
I’m not used to this.
I’m used to doors closing,
to footsteps fading
before I can even speak.
I’m not used to this.
I’m not used to someone staying,
leaning into the spaces
I’ve long left empty.
I bring my scars like lanterns,
flickering, fragile,
and you—
you trace their edges with care,
never flinching,
never asking for more than I can give.
I see your hesitations,
the quiet tremor behind your smile,
the shadowed corners of your past
you tuck into your sleeves.
You are careful with me,
as I am with you.
We move slowly,
like two hands learning each other
in the dark,
tracing lines of trust
over wounds that still ache.
I am wary.
I am heavy with history.
I have loved and been left.
I have built walls
taller than myself.
And still,
you do not falter.
Your patience is steady,
like a river bending around stones,
never harsh, never rushing,
but always persistent.
I notice the way you watch me,
like you’re memorizing my silence,
like you see the cracks
and choose to stay anyway.
I notice the way you hesitate,
how your care mirrors my caution,
how your wounds reflect mine
without judgment or shame.
We are both unpracticed
in this kind of gentleness,
this kind of giving.
And yet—
we are learning together.
I am not used to it.
I am not used to being held
in someone else’s patience,
to being mirrored in someone else’s heart.
And I wonder—
perhaps this is what it is to be seen,
truly seen,
and not abandoned.
We do not need words for it.
We do not need proof.
The small gestures,
the quiet constancy,
the mirrored care—
speak louder than anything we have ever known.
I am not used to this.
But I am beginning to be.
And somehow, in this fragile, tender space,
I am learning that it is enough
for both of us to stay.
For more poetry, check the [Library of Ashes]…
Author’s Note
This piece is a quiet confession—half shadow, half devotion. In In Her Light, I explore what it means to exist in the spaces someone else illuminates, to be tethered to their glow without asking for it, to guard what they give freely. Sometimes devotion is loud, sometimes it’s invisible; this is the latter, folded into every heartbeat and breath.
— B.D. Nightshade
In Her Light
Poetry by B.D. Nightshade
She’s the light,
I’m the shadow she casts.
I’ve always known my place—
not in the center,
not demanding attention,
just here, steady, waiting.
Every laugh she lets loose
echoes against the walls of me.
Every glance she doesn’t notice
leaves fingerprints on my chest.
I’m the quiet behind her flare,
the pulse she doesn’t feel,
but the one that steadies her steps
when the world threatens to wobble.
She doesn’t need me to shine—
but I need her light.
And if the only way to keep it safe
is to linger unseen,
then unseen I remain.
I memorize the way she breathes,
how her shadow bends against the floor,
the subtle tremble in her hands
when she’s trying not to break.
I’ve built invisible walls around her glow,
stone by stone, heartbeat by heartbeat,
so no one steals what she gives freely,
so no one dims what she can’t contain.
And still, I ache.
I ache to be more than a sentinel,
to be the warmth that touches her skin,
to be seen by her, truly.
But for now, I exist in the quiet,
folded into corners she never notices,
a whisper of devotion
she feels only when danger passes,
when chaos recedes,
when the world bows down
and leaves her whole.
I am her shadow,
but even shadows have edges.
I will guard her light,
even from myself.
Looking for more poetry? You can find it all in [The Library of Ashes].
Author’s Note
This Is Confession is one of those pieces that arrives when I’ve stopped trying to be poetic and instead let myself be honest. It’s less a poem and more a moment of emotional transparency—an admission pulled straight from the chest rather than crafted on the page.
I have a habit of writing around the things I feel most deeply, hiding truth between metaphors or reshaping it into imagery so it feels safer. This time, I didn’t want safety. I wanted clarity. I wanted to name the weight and tenderness of caring for someone quietly, intensely, without performance or pretense.
Sometimes the most frightening thing we can do is say something plainly.
Sometimes the bravest thing is letting the truth stand without armor.
This piece is that bravery for me.
— Rowan Evans
This Is Confession
Poetry by Rowan Evans
I’ve done this once before,
but this isn’t poetry…
This—
this is confession.
This is me spilling my guts
in ink-carved words.
Even on the days we don’t talk,
you’re still at the forefront of my thoughts.
Your name lingers on the tip
of my tongue.
You’re my favorite topic—
not to sound too obsessive.
But even obsession feels too small a word
for the way my thoughts orbit you.
You’re the gravity I return to,
even on the days I swear I’m drifting.
Some names echo—
yours resonates.
I don’t know when it happened,
but somewhere between your laughter
and your pain,
I started carrying pieces of you
like they were my own.
I kept it quiet.
I didn’t say a thing.
Not because I’m ashamed,
but because admitting it feels like stepping
into a room lit only by truth—
and truth has never been gentle with me.
It’s always been the same:
people take what they want from me—
then they leave.
Or they leave the moment I open up,
start to spill my guts, just a little—
when I get a little too real,
too much,
too feel.
Two truths and a lie…
The truth is—
I’ve always cared more than I should,
and I’ve always been better at hurting myself
than disappointing anyone else.
The lie is pretending
I don’t feel all of this
every time you cross my mind.
Because the truth is—
you do.
Every day.
In ways I don’t admit out loud,
in ways I fold quietly
between the lines of every poem
I swear isn’t about you.
And maybe this is reckless,
maybe this is too much—
but confession was never meant
to be safe.
It was meant to be honest.
And honestly?
I’d spill every last secret I have
if it meant you’d understand
even a fraction
of how deeply
you live in me.
Looking for more poetry? You can find it all in the Library of Ashes.
Author’s Note
Some love is written in whispers, some in roars. Some love challenges you, confounds you, makes you question everything you thought you knew about desire, trust, and devotion. This piece is for that kind of love—the kind that doesn’t ask for perfection, but for honesty. The kind that turns what the world sees as flaws into the most beautiful invitations, the most sacred of green lights.
It’s about seeing someone fully, leaning in when others might run, and finding that the very things that could push you away are the things you are drawn to most. These are the red flags that are secretly green, the chaos that feels like home, the complexity that makes your heart stretch wide enough to hold another soul.
Read it as confession. Read it as celebration. Read it as a permission slip for intimacy, wildness, and trust.
Green Flags in Disguise
Poetry by Rowan Evans
(Written April 29th, 2025)
You laid your cards down one by one—
Red flags, you called them.
Warnings.
Not to scare me off,
just to see if I’d run.
I didn’t. I leaned in.
“Anger issues?”
You’ve been gaslit, babe—
called volatile for daring to feel
in a world that only makes room
for men to explode.
But your rage? It’s sacred fire.
I’d build temples in the ashes.
That’s not a flaw. That’s clarity.
Every time you cursed “idiot,”
my heart stuttered with how right it felt.
Why is this so attractive?
Call me weird—
But everything you thought made you unlovable
is exactly what I love.
“Paranoia?”
Please. I get it.
You’ve been betrayed by the hands that held you.
I’ve lived the same kind of quiet, twitching dread.
So if you need to ask questions twice, or ten times—
ask.
I won’t judge.
I’ll just stay.
“Possessive?”
Yes, please.
Own me.
Call me yours with your whole chest.
Claim every piece of me with teeth and intent.
I won’t run—I’ll beg for more.
Mark me. Mold me.
Make me forget who I was
before I belonged to you.
“Jealous?”
God, it’s hot.
Not the petty kind, not the toxic kind—
The kind that says you matter to me so much it scares me.
I wouldn’t ever give you a reason to doubt.
But if I slipped up…
I’d want to be punished.
Yes, I’m that kind of submissive.
“Strict?”
Say less.
Tell me what to do.
Correct me when I misstep.
Guide me with that edge in your voice—
the one that makes my knees forget how to be knees.
I was made for this.
For you.
“Unpredictable?”
That’s not a red flag.
That’s spontaneity.
That’s adventure.
That’s yes, let’s burn the script and make our own.
You bring the chaos—I’ll bring the trust.
“A bitch at times?”
Be one more.
Be unapologetic.
Be brutal when it calls for it.
The world tried to tame you.
Let me be the one who tells you not to flinch.
Your sharpness is beautiful.
Cut me, and I’ll bleed loyalty.
“Sarcastic?”
Perfect.
Fluent in sarcasm.
It’s our dialect now.
Trade jabs with me until it turns to kisses.
Be wicked with your words—I’ll turn them into poems.
“A little selfish?”
Good. Be selfish.
Take what you want.
You deserve that, and more.
You deserve someone who doesn’t flinch when you demand,
someone who smiles when you dominate.
You want a submissive partner?
I’m kneeling already.
You just didn’t notice.
Every “yes, ma’am,”
every “tell me what you need”—
That was me offering myself on a velvet platter.
And I’ll keep offering,
if you’ll keep taking.
“A little sadist?”
Your nails, your teeth, your whispered sins—
I crave them.
I want your bite to outlast the bruises.
I want your darkness to stretch its limbs across me
until I can’t tell where I end and you begin.
“Loves darkness?”
Darling.
I was born in it, too.
We don’t have to be afraid of each other’s shadows.
We light them.
So no.
I don’t see red.
I see you.
And maybe I’m colorblind—
maybe I’ve got protanomaly, babe—
because all I see is green.
Green like go.
Green like yes.
Green like marry me.
Yeah, I said it.
I know you’ll probably get smug,
or tease me,
or roast the hell out of me for this—
but I’m ready.
Test me again.
I’ll pass.
Every time.
Suggested Reads
[My Red Flags] — A Dark Romance Poem About Loving the Dangerous
“You told me you had anger issues. But I’ve only seen you furious in defense—a saint of righteous fire.”
‘My Red Flags’ is a confession disguised as a love spell. In this dark romantic poem, Rowan Evans turns every warning sign into worship—an ode to danger, devotion, and the art of loving without fear of burning.
If you would like to check out more of my work, you can find it here in the archives: The Library of Ashes
Introduction
By Roo the Poet
🌸 (Roo bouncing around, smiling.)
Heeey, you’re heeere!
Haha—yes, yes, YES… you found it.
This is messy.
This is wild.
This is word soup with fangs and sparkles.
🟠 Rowan’s giggling.
🔴 B.D.’s growling.
🟣 Hex is lurking.
And me?
I’m jumping up and down, waving my little knife, spilling ink everywhere,
laughing like a sugar‑crazed tornado in a tutu.
Maybe I’m plotting. Maybe I’m just playing.
Read it if you want.
Or don’t.
I don’t care.
But I’ll be watching.
Always watching.
Rite of Ink
Poetry by Rowan Evans
🟠 (Rowan takes center stage.)
You say you write what you really live—
but it reads like fantasy.
I say I write a fantasy—
but it reads like what I really live.
Nobody believes what you’re saying, dawg,
because honestly, your honesty sounds like a fraud.
You say, this is my life though—
and nobody buys what you’re sellin’, bro.
I could write three poems about one conversation,
say I made it all up, and still they see the life in it.
You could write a whole poem about your life,
and readers would still find lies in it.
You could put your wife’s name in every rhyme,
and still nobody believes she exists.
I turn my muse into an archetype,
and nobody questions whether she lives.
Because my words are alive,
and yours? Flat out lies.
I write so well, I don’t even have to try—
you write, and everybody asks… why?
I could hide the woman I love’s name in plain sight…
like Are you even reading this?
I’m schooling you, you flunky,
and still you think you can fuck with me?
I live in my words,
and they live back.
Yours?
Just echoes, gasping for breath.
Let me rewind that back…
I said I could hide her name in plain sight.
Are you even reading this?
I’m schooling you, you flunky,
and still you think you can fuck with me?
You think you’re on the same page?
Don’t make me laugh—I’ll leave you shook.
You’re not even in the same book.
Don’t insult me.
Don’t provoke me.
Don’t test my rage.
I’ll end up sayin’—
B.D. get ’em.
🔴 (B.D. steps from the shadows.)
Bones snap. Blood goes cold.
As the tone shifts, I enter the fold.
My knife hums a pleasant song—
pleasant for me, because you don’t know
what you did wrong.
You choke on smoke and sulfur.
Blood curdles like spoiled milk.
I do it for my own, homegrown culture,
as my words cut through flesh like silk.
Your blood like ink
will spill across the page.
Cold steel my pen,
my words? Rage.
And here comes Hex—
she’s up next.
🟣 (Hex materializes from nowhere.)
Ashes to ashes, blood to blood,
Eye of toad, and witch’s tongue.
Tail of newt—the spell’s begun.
You think you’re safe… so you don’t run.
Safe is an illusion.
When you write? A delusion.
When I write?
A rite.
An earworm.
A brain intrusion.
I’ll twist your thoughts
like silk spun—
this isn’t personal,
I’ll hex you for fun.
So mote it be
Step deeper into the shadows and discover the full breadth of my poetry in The Library of Ashes — an archive of ink-stained devotion, dark petals, and threshold poems that linger long after the last candle flickers. Visit The Library of Ashes →
Author’s Note
This piece is a meditation on resilience, self-reclamation, and the sanctity of imperfection. I wrote it as a sermon for anyone who has ever felt broken, misfit, or misaligned with the world’s expectations. It’s a reminder that divinity exists in survival, in truth-telling, and in the courage to rebuild oneself repeatedly. For the fractured souls out there: this one’s for you.
— Rowan Evans
Sermon for the Fractured
Sermon by Rowan Evans
Every poem I write
is a sermon for the fractured soul.
Saint with a pen,
heathen in the mind.
I’m a preacher’s child
gone wild—
welcome to my church,
it’s a service for the misfits.
I crowned myself a deity.
My divinity
lives somewhere between
G-O-D and Lucifer.
I’m a morningstar, lightbringer.
Or a shadow
walking through a holy world.
Your holy book
banned my name.
Heaven doesn’t want me,
Hell doesn’t either.
So I made
Purgatory my kingdom.
You don’t have to praise me,
you don’t have to worship.
I don’t need blind faith—
for the miracles I create.
You don’t have to suffer
to prove a thing—
your breath is devotion enough.
You don’t have to
sell me your soul.
I will bless you,
while you remain whole.
I am not a deity without flaw—
I’ve been cracked, fractured,
put back together
by my own hands.
I’ve rebuilt myself,
time and time again.
So I don’t ask for perfection,
I ask for confession,
truth and witness.
You can find more of my gospel in the Library of Ashes. [The Library of Ashes]
Poetry by Rowan Evans 