Author’s Note

This poem was written in a moment of clarity — the kind where love, identity, and self-worth collide in a single breath. It’s not about perfection, but presence. Not about winning someone, but showing what it means to love with depth, honesty, and devotion. I wrote this piece as a reminder that being seen — truly seen — is one of the rarest gifts we can offer or receive.

The Best to Ever Love You
Poetry by Rowan Evans
(Written April 29th, 2025)

I won’t promise perfection.
Perfection is a lie sold in glossy pages and curated silence.
I will promise presence—
a kind that stays
when the light goes out,
when the weight is too heavy to lift alone.
I’ll be there with my back against the world
and my heart wide open,
offering everything I am,
even the parts I’m still healing.

I was not born into a name that fit.
I was not handed a life where my reflection
spoke kindly to me.
I had to fight for every inch of authenticity—
for this skin, this voice,
this truth I now wear with defiant grace.
So believe me when I say:
I see you in a way most people never could.

Because I, too,
have been misjudged
by eyes that didn’t know how to look deeper.

But then—there was you.
You, with your fierce softness.
You, who never tried to fix me,
because you never thought I was broken.

You just existed,
and the noise in my chest went quiet.
Everything else faded.
The world shrank to the sound of your laugh
and the way your eyes carry whole lifetimes
in every glance.

You told me about him—
the one who couldn’t see you.
Who turned your love into labor
and your light into shadow.
Who made you feel
like asking to be loved fully
was some unforgivable burden.

But he was the broken one.
A coward dressed in borrowed confidence.
A man so small,
he couldn’t handle the vastness of you.

He called you too much,
but I see it for what it is—
you are limitless.

And if he couldn’t love you,
it’s only because he mistook your strength for trouble,
your silence for surrender.
He didn’t deserve you
on your worst days,
let alone your best.

He was never a man—
just a placeholder.
A whisper of what love could be
if love lacked depth,
vision,
spine.

And me?

I never wanted to be a man.
But somehow,
I can still out-man him with my eyes closed.
Isn’t that funny?
To be non-binary, trans-femme,
and still possess more loyalty,
more protection,
more honest devotion
than someone raised with every societal advantage.

I’d be embarrassed if I were him—
to be eclipsed by someone
who doesn’t even want his title,
but can carry its responsibilities
better than he ever tried to.

And yet,
I don’t want you to choose me
just because I’m better than a ghost.

I want you to see me—
not as a compromise,
not as a curiosity,
but as the constellation
your soul already recognizes.

You once joked
you “should’ve been a lesbian.”
And I smiled,
but inside I held my breath
because I am sapphic,
and for once,
I felt like maybe—just maybe—
the stars weren’t mocking me.

You said you were open-minded.
That you weren’t sure.
That maybe there was something here,
even if you couldn’t name it.

And damn it,
I held onto that like prayer.
Not because I expect anything,
but because hope has always been louder in me
than doubt.

Maybe you don’t see me that way.
Maybe you never will.
But you should know—

I could love you better
than every ex who left bruises
instead of memories.
I could hold you safer
than all the hands that ever failed to catch you.
I could be
not just the best person to ever love you—
but the first to truly see you
and not flinch.

So let them doubt.
Let the world misgender me.
Let him think he “won”
because he had you first.

I know the truth.

You are worth becoming.
And I have become
a thousand versions of myself
just to be ready
if ever you say yes.

More of my poetry can be found here: The Library of Ashes