Author’s Note

This poem is not a cry for help — it’s a confession. It’s the truth about living in a body that feels too heavy, a heart that beats even when I’m too tired to hold it. For anyone who knows what it’s like to rise with no hope, no spark, just sheer stubborn survival — this one is for you. You’re not alone in the mornings that feel impossible. You’re not alone in the weight.

Ghost in My Body
Poetry by Rowan Evans

I awoke,
empty of hope.
Chest tight, eyes wide—
the world felt
unbearably heavy.
I took a minute,
recalibrated.
I fix my face
into something readable,
something quiet—
because they’ll look
straight into my eyes,
and still ask,
“But… are you happy?”

I haven’t really been
since I was thirteen—
the year something in me
stopped blooming.
Yeah, it’s been
a lack of smiles,
since I
was thirteen.
The year the light in me
learned to dim itself.

It’s been a
constant struggle,
as I’ve struggled constantly.
I struggle to find
my place.
I struggle to recognize
my face.
Trust me, when I say
I struggle with everything.
Like, I don’t want to die,
but I—
don’t really want to be alive.
It’s a struggle
just to survive.

It’s a struggle just to survive,
carrying a body
that feels heavier
than I do.
Dragging a heartbeat
that won’t quit
even when I’m tired of holding it.

And yet—
every morning,
somehow,
I rise.
Not healed,
not whole,
just here.
Dragging the weight,
of a heartbeat
that refuses to stop
even when I want rest,
even when I want it to.

I’m just
a ghost still trying
to haunt its own body.

But still,
I pull myself upright—
not because I’m hopeful,
but because something in me
refuses to die quietly.
And maybe one day
the bloom returns,
the light rekindles—
but tonight,
I just breathe
and call it survival.

Looking for more poetry? You can find it all in the Library of Ashes.