Author’s Note

This piece started with a simple idea—listening to something you’re told to ignore.

But the more I sat with it, the less it felt like something external.

There’s a voice you develop after spending enough time with your own thoughts. One that understands where you’ve been, what you’ve survived, and what you’ve learned to carry.

It doesn’t filter itself the way you do.

It doesn’t soften the truth.

And that’s what makes it uncomfortable.

We’re taught to silence that voice. To treat it like something separate, something dangerous.

But sometimes, it’s not the enemy.

Sometimes, it’s just you—without hesitation.

— Rowan Evans

When the Devil Speaks, I Listen
Poetry by Rowan Evans

I listen—
when the devil talks,
because he knows
the paths I’ve walked.

I’ve slept
where shadows crept,
made my bed in crypts.

I’ve walked through rooms
that felt like tombs—
bled ink on pages,
translated hurt
into words.

I listen
when the devil talks,

because I recognize
he’s walked
the same paths I’ve walked.

He’s seen the places
I’ve laid my head,
the crypts
I made home.

He’s read the pages—
stained
with crimson ink.

So yes—
I listen,

because I recognize
the voice
sounds like mine—
just older,
and less afraid to say it.

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