Author’s Note

This piece is not gentle. It was never meant to be. It is a direct response to centuries of lies, theft, and erasure perpetrated under the guise of supremacy. It is a mirror held up to the illusions of power, privilege, and comfort that whiteness perpetuates—not to attack individuals, but to illuminate the systems that allow harm to flourish unchallenged.

As someone who inhabits privilege while fighting to dismantle it, I wrote this poem with urgency, rage, and a refusal to stay silent. It is meant to burn, to disrupt complacency, and to remind readers that being awake carries responsibility. This is both a confession and a manifesto: that witnessing injustice is not neutral, that silence is complicity, and that words can be weapons as well as medicine.

I do not write this to make anyone feel guilty, but to confront the lies we inherit, the myths we are told, and the truths we must reclaim. Let this poem be a call to action, a reminder to observe, to question, and to fight for a world where truth and equity are not optional.

Finally, this is a personal reckoning. It is my fire, my ink, my unrelenting witness. I write for the silenced, the stolen, and the unseen. I write because I cannot unsee, cannot unhear, cannot unfeel. And I will not stop.

— Rowan Evans

Allergic to Lies: The White Construct Exposed
Poetry by Rowan Evans

If you think pale skin is power, listen.
It is fragile.
It is brittle.
A mutation allergic to the sun, allergic to life,
Clinging to stolen kingdoms built on screams and ash.

You parade your “history,” but it is hollow.
Bones stacked beneath polished floors,
Names erased, cultures stolen, voices strangled,
And you call it civilization?
We call it theft.
We call it sickness.
We call it whiteness.

Privilege, like cheap wine, floods your veins.
Comfort cushions your cowardice.
Your empire thrives in shadows,
Hiding violence behind polite smiles,
Polished lies, empty laws, polite apathy.

You brand us radicals, terrorists, troublemakers,
Because we see the skeleton beneath the satin mask.
We see mothers you erased, fathers you buried, children you ignored.
We see, we remember, we rage.

Every statue you raised, every textbook you wrote, every law you twisted,
We tear it down with teeth, ink, fire, and truth.
Every lie you sell, we shred.
Every lie you tell yourself, we burn.

Your skin, pale as fear, cannot hide your rot.
You claim superiority while choking on stolen breath,
While the world bleeds from wounds you ignore.
You call it civilization.
We call it a disease.

We will speak for the silenced,
For the stolen, the hunted, the vanished.
Our voices, neon ink blazing in your darkness,
Our rage, wildfire consuming your fragile myths.

White skin is brittle armor,
Your words are brittle weapons,
Your “power” a shadow on trembling ground.
We are awake.
We are unbroken witnesses.
We are fire.
We are ink.
We are the truth you cannot swallow.

Do not call us angry.
Do not call us radical.
Do not call us extremists.
We call ourselves awake.
We call ourselves unbowed.
We call ourselves alive in a world built to erase us.

You think your silence protects you?
It does not.
Your lies do not hide you.
Your comfort will not save you.
We will not blink.
We will not bend.
We will not forgive your ignorance masquerading as dominion.

We will take your privilege, twist it, wield it like fire.
Not to dominate, not to hoard, not to kneel.
But to expose.
To shatter.
To illuminate every shadow where you hide.

Every stolen culture, every silenced language, every erased story—
We resurrect.
Every crushed spirit, every hunted child, every mother silenced—
We scream for.
Every lie you ever whispered to yourself as “truth”
We burn, incandescent, unrelenting.

History may remember you—or forget.
We do not forget.
We will not forgive.
We are allergic to your lies,
Allergic to your cowardice,
Allergic to the illusion you call supremacy.

White skin is a brittle mask.
We tear it off.
White words are hollow shells.
We shatter them.
White privilege is poison.
We drink it, twist it, turn it into ink, and write fire.

We are mutation.
Mutation that will not hide.
Mutation that will not kneel.
Mutation that sees, that burns, that speaks.
We are witness.
We are fury.
We are truth.
We are allergic to your lies, and we will burn every last one.

And if you stand in the sun, trembling in the heat,
Wondering why your empire crumbles,
We will not answer.
We will only watch,
Ink dripping like molten blood,
Truth blazing like wildfire,
Because your supremacy is a lie,
And we are awake.

We are unbound.
We are unbroken.
We are fire in your comfort,
Ink in your lies,
The scream in your silence,
And we will not stop.

Not for your laws.
Not for your towers.
Not for your stolen crowns.
We are awake.
We are alive.
And your mutation cannot hold us.

WOKE Part 1: Staying Awake in a World of Injustice
A searing exploration of staying vigilant in a world of systemic injustice. Rowan Evans confronts oppression and the emotional toll of resisting a society that labels truth as crime.