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Poetry by Rowan Evans

Tag: poetry for her

  • Flustered AF – Confessional Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    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.

    A person sitting in a softly lit room, papers and pen scattered, captured in a moment of quiet, flustered reflection.
    “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.

  • Even If the Sky Falls Black

    Rowan Evans
    You called yourself 
    a devil-woman, 
    and I smiled 
    like a sinner watching angels fall. 

    She says, 
    “I wish you could see me at my brightest.” 
    But love— 
    I met you in the ruins, 
    and I swear, 
    even your ashes glowed. 
     
    You ask if you deserve these words, 
    as though devotion were a thing to be earned 
    instead of something I bled willingly— 
    ink, soul and starlight, 
    dragged from the marrow 
    to spell your name in reverence. 
     
    You were fire-burned, 
    soul-scabbed, 
    eyes like war-torn altars 
    and I— 
    I fell to my knees anyway. 
     
    You want to give me the sun, 
    but I have seen its envy. 
    The stars? 
    I would rip them from their heavens 
    just to return the shimmer 
    you lost in the dark. 
     
    You called yourself 
    a devil-woman, 
    and I smiled 
    like a sinner watching angels fall. 
     
    Yes— 
    you’re all thorns and temptation, 
    rage and soft wreckage, 
    but do you not know? 
    Even Lucifer was once the Morning Star, 
    and I would follow your light 
    through hell 
    and back again. 
     
    You are grace wrapped in fury, 
    the kind of storm that leaves me kneeling, 
    kissed by lightning, 
    whispering prayers in your name 
    as though your laughter could resurrect me. 
     
    And I— 
    I’m not leaving. 
     
    Not when your darkness 
    made my heart a cathedral, 
    not when your voice 
    taught my ghosts how to sing. 
     
    I will always be near— 
    in breath, in spirit, 
    in the hush between your sobs 
    and the sacred silence that follows. 
     
    You deserve these words, 
    and a thousand more. 
    You deserve the cosmos carved into lullabies, 
    the moon weeping its light into your palms. 
     
    You— 
    with your shadows and softness, 
    your fierce, aching heart— 
    are the most worthy thing 
    I’ve ever written for. 
     
    Even if the sky falls black, 
    I’ll still call your name 
    a holy thing.