Author’s Note

People often decide who you are before you have the chance to speak. They carve a version of you that makes them comfortable, then hold it up like a mirror and expect you to recognize your own face.

This poem is about rejecting that reflection and reclaiming the right to define myself.

— Rowan Evans

Wearing My Name
Poetry by Rowan Evans

They say I’m just like them,
but I’m not like them—
swear I’m nothing like them.
They say I protest too much,
a double-edged sword, I guess.
Can’t stand up, can’t sit down—
can’t speak up, can’t make a sound.

They carve a version of me
that fits their comfort,
then hand it back
like a mirror.
But it’s not my face—
just their fear
wearing my name.

They say I’m just like men,
but I’m not like them.
So I distance myself
from who I used to be.
Now I’ll tell you
how I see myself,
truthfully.

I’m not the man they imagine,
not the echo they expect.
I’m the version I built
after breaking the mold
they tried to fit me in.

I’m not a man,
not a woman,
something in between,
King nor Queen—
I’m still royalty.
Master of emotion,
deity of poetry.
A precious soul
trying to keep hold
of my humanity.

Adorable, yeah—I’m cute,
and I know you know it too.
It’s okay.
You don’t have to say
a thing.

Of course you’re looking.
Why wouldn’t you?

If you’re interested in more poetry, you can find it here → [The Library of Ashes]