There are poems you write to whisper. And there are poems you write to burn down the altar.

This piece was born from every moment I refused to kneel, every scar that became scripture, every time I was told to quiet the rage that kept me alive. It is sacred defiance turned stanza—a reclamation of the darkness we’re told to fear, yet which so often saves us when light abandons us.

To every daughter who chose fire over forgiveness: this is for you.

“Ashes of the Prodigal Daughter”
Poetry by Rowan Evans

If you see the devil,
tell her I’m coming home—
not crawling, not weeping,
but crowned in thorns I chose,
draped in velvet ruin,
with sacred soot beneath my nails.

The sky was never my sanctuary.
Heaven asked for silence,
for purity I never carried—
just the weight of women like me,
crushed under psalms and porcelain smiles.

I was carved from rebellion,
a daughter of dusk and defiance,
suckled not on milk, but wildfire—
a hymnless thing
that never bent the knee
unless it was to rise again.

Let the angels lock their gates.
I’ve unlearned the need for harps and haloes.
I don’t want paradise.
I want the place where sinners sing,
where scars are scripture
and every scream is a sacred verse.

I was not cast out.
I walked out—
step by blistered step,
each footfall a funeral for the girl
who tried to earn her worth
with rosary apologies.

I want Hell,
because I am realistic.
Because love never saved me—
but rage made me holy.

I’ll burn,
but it won’t break me.
I’ve danced with every flame
that tried to claim me.
Each one bent to kiss my bones.

Ash is my anointing.
Smoke is my veil.
I shed names like old skins
and stitched a gospel from every
“too much” they nailed into my spine.

I was forged in fire,
baptized in blood,
a reluctant oracle
with a martyr’s heart
and a serpent’s tongue.

I warred with saints
and kissed their daughters.
I blessed the liars
and cursed the altars.
And still,
I was never anything less than divine.

So tell the devil:
prepare the feast.
Light the candles with my wrath.
I return not as a sinner,
but as scripture—

The ashes of the prodigal daughter,
risen, radiant,
and finally,
home.

We are taught to see rebellion as sin—but sometimes rebellion is survival. Sometimes refusing to be silent, refusing to be small, refusing to repent for who we are… is the holiest act of all.

In my genre, Neo-Gothic Confessional Romanticism, we do not deny the darkness. We kneel in it, name it sacred, and rise again—wreathed in smoke, crowned in “too much,” unashamed.

✨ Has rage ever made you holy?
Share your story in the comments below—or tell me: which line lit a fire in you? Let’s keep building this cathedral of defiance, together.