This piece is the closest I’ve come to writing the truth of my internal war without softening it. Between Worlds is about self-violence—the way the mind learns your weak spots, remembers the old wounds, and knows exactly where to cut. It’s a poem about relapse, about memory, about survival, and about the strange loneliness that follows healing.
It speaks to the years where I wasn’t sure I’d make it. The hospital walls. The padded quiet. The fluorescent lights humming through the silence. It speaks to dissociation, to identity, to queerness, and to the mythic distance I’ve always felt between who I am and the world I live in.
This poem isn’t a cry for help—it’s a record of survival. It isn’t tragedy for tragedy’s sake—it’s truth. It’s the reality that healing isn’t linear, that progress has shadows, and that sometimes the loudest battles are fought in the mind no one else can see.
If you know this feeling—of standing in your own skin like it never quite fits, of fighting thoughts with thoughts, of loving your existence even when you question your place in it—then I hope you feel seen here.
Because none of us are alone in the in-between.
— Rowan Evans
Between Worlds — artwork representing Rowan Evans’ poem about surviving mental illness, dissociation, and identity beyond binaries.
Between Worlds Poetry by Rowan Evans
Why do I always try to pick a fight with me?
You’d think I’d know, by now, just how quick I’ll slip an insult under the ribs.
I’ll hit every single fear, twist them like a knife— until I’m on my knees, gasping, spitting blood.
I don’t fight fair. I target old wounds, tear at what’s already healed. I’ll fuck around and send myself back ten years— back to hospital walls and quiet rooms, where the only sound was the fluorescent hum.
Where time dissolved… where clocks stopped ticking.
But I walked out of those halls— didn’t I?
Didn’t I?
But what if I didn’t? What if I’m still locked inside, in a padded room with the jacket strapped tight? Thoughts confined, so the words won’t escape.
Writing poems in my head, just to pass the time.
I’ve been alive, but dead inside. And I’ll be honest: I’ve died inside my mind more than a dozen times.
I just wanted escape.
Escape from pain, from feeling misplaced— I just wanted to belong.
But it’s like— something is wrong here. Why don’t I feel like I belong here?
Why does everything feel a half inch to the left— like I’m living inside the echo of myself?
Like I’m watching my life from behind fogged glass, palms against the surface, screaming— but no sound passes through.
Sometimes I swear the world forgets I’m here, and sometimes I do too.
Maybe it’s because every room I walk into, I’m half a ghost already— too queer, too quiet, too soft, too strange. Too fucking much for everyone but me.
Maybe that’s why the fight never ends— because I’m still trying to prove I deserve the space I take up, even in my own skin.
So maybe I don’t belong here because I was born between worlds— not alive, not dead, not human, not myth, not safe, not ruined.
Maybe my bones remember a home I never had, and every heartbeat since has been an attempt to map my way back.
This poem is not about wanting to die. It is about learning how to survive long before learning how to live.
Reflecting on survival, solitude, and the quiet strength found in shadows.
Since I Was Thirteen (Fluent in Survival) Poetry by Rowan Evans
I feel like I’m lost,
I’m wandering.
Twisted thoughts,
I’m pondering.
My demise
in a life I despise.
It’s not that I want to die—
I’m just tired
of trying to survive.
I want to be happy.
I’m alive.
But my head
is so full of dread—
every morning
a negotiation
just to get out of bed.
Body feels heavy,
limbs lagging—
everything moves
in slow-motion.
Slipping into shadows—
going home.
The light has never felt like mine.
I was born in the shadows,
raised in the shade.
Darkness has been
my mindscape—
since I was thirteen.
I learned early
how to make myself small—
how to soften my footsteps
inside my own head.
I memorized the weight of silence,
learned which thoughts were safe to keep
and which ones
needed to stay buried.
Survival became a second language,
spoken fluently,
even when no one was listening.
I say I’m alive
like it’s a defense—
like survival
should be enough.
But living
feels like something other people do
without rehearsing it first.
Closing Note
I wrote this for anyone who learned survival before they learned safety. For those who are still here, even when “alive” feels like a negotiation. You are not failing — you are fluent in something the world never taught gently.
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.
“Even when the body feels heavy and the heart refuses rest, the spirit rises — a ghost in its own skin.”
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 theLibrary of Ashes.
This poem is a reflection on the long, quiet war I’ve carried inside my mind for most of my life. I wrote this piece as an acknowledgment of survival—not as a victory march, but as a tired, honest admission that I’m still here. Depression and anxiety are battles most people never see, but if you’re fighting them too, I hope this reminds you that surviving is a form of defiance. You’re not alone, and your existence—even in the hardest moments—is a testament to your strength.
A visual representation of the internal war between survival and despair.
I Survive (I’m Alive) Poetry by Rowan Evans
I stand in the midst of a battlefield— not literal, but metaphor. And I still struggle to see what this struggle is even for. There is a war raging in my head, between the voice that wants to live and the voice that wants me dead.
That was me at sixteen. Now I’m thirty-five— still wondering how I’m even alive. And though I’ve fought like hell, I’m not doing well. Yet I survive. Even when I don’t thrive, I’m alive.
Alive in spite of years of internal torment. So go on— tell me I’m going to hell for the way I live. I’ll face eternal torment with a smile on my face; I’ve lived it already.
Next year, I’ll be thirty-six. Six. Six. They say I’m evil in my ways, that even the devil wouldn’t praise. But that’s okay— because I’m mentally sick. Sick. Sick.
Depression. Anxiety. They are the rot inside of me. I see them with clarity. I don’t need your pity or charity.
I just need patience, and understanding— but you won’t give it, because you’ve never lived it. So how could you? How could you understand what it’s like to both want to live and to die at the same time, in the same breath?
But I won’t leave. I won’t shed this flesh. I’ve made promises. I promised… I’m not going anywhere.
Looking for more poetry? You can find it all in theLibrary of Ashes.
This piece came from a place of uncomfortable clarity — the kind that only arrives after you’ve survived enough storms to notice the patterns in the people around you. There’s a strange truth I’ve learned over the years: some people loved me louder when I was breaking than when I was healing. Pain made me poetic, easy to praise, easy to place on a pedestal of tragedy. But healing? Healing is quieter, steadier, less romantic. And somehow, to some people, that made it less worthy of attention.
I didn’t write this to shame anyone. I wrote it because it’s real — because recovery deserves reverence too, because resilience isn’t any less beautiful than collapse, and because we don’t talk enough about how lonely healing can be.
This piece is for anyone who’s ever felt more valuable broken than whole. For anyone rebuilding themselves without applause. For anyone learning to exist without having to bleed for validation.
You are still art.
— Rowan Evans
Even survival can feel quiet in a world that only learned to listen to the sound of breaking.
When Survival Gets Quiet Poetry by Rowan Evans
It’s always been strange to me how people praised me louder when I was dying inside than when I wasn’t.
And I don’t say this to make anyone feel shame— it’s just something I’ve noticed over time. Over a lot of motherfuckin’ time.
I can think back to so many moments where I was ready to check out. Where the smallest thing felt like the final straw.
And I don’t say that to minimize, or erase, or make light of the weight those moments carried.
They held me like a museum tragedy— a relic of ruin, a beautiful collapse.
But when I finally learned to breathe again, their applause softened, like my healing made the art less valuable.
Maybe it’s easier to love me when I’m bleeding metaphors than when I’m quietly rebuilding.
Maybe survival is too quiet for people who only learned to listen to the sound of breaking.
Looking for more poetry? You can find it all in theLibrary of Ashes.
Some experiences leave marks that cannot be erased. Some truths are shouted silently in the shadowed corners of memory.
Echoes of Reality is my attempt to give voice to a time I was silenced, to the confusion and pain that lingered long after the moments themselves. This piece does not seek comfort or closure—it seeks acknowledgment. It is a testament to survival, to remembering, and to insisting that my reality is my own.
Read with care, and hold space for the truth it carries.
Echoes of Reality – a poetic testament to memory, trauma, and survival.
Echoes of Reality Poetry by Rowan Evans
Have you heard somber words spoken, and felt the cold touch of trauma? Because I know the confusion caused by their cold invalidation, the questioning of reality, like did it really happen— the way I’m remembering?
Their touches, unwanted, but that’s not what they’ll tell you, gaslighting, rewriting, reality to confuse and manipulate, to keep you questioning, did that really happen— the way I’m remembering?
You try and get away, but it follows, always advancing, unwanted, it was unwanted, but that’s not what they tell you, until eventually, even you’ll believe, it didn’t really happen— the way you’re remembering.
It’s been years, so why do I still feel them, why is my skin not coming clean? If it never happened, why does it replay in my darkest dreams, why does the nightmare keep repeating, if it never happened— the way I’m remembering?
I’ve struggled through the dark, trying to resurface, but I’m lost here, I’m stuck in this place, it endlessly replays and still, I keep questioning, are these even memories? But why would I make it up, for what?
My eyes are open, now I see, this was my reality, it happened, you can’t say it didn’t, because it happened to me, I lived it. I felt it. And I know, it happened exactly— as I’m remembering.
This piece reflects on the quiet strength it takes to remain soft in a world that often tries to harden you. It’s a personal reflection on resilience, empathy, and the enduring capacity to love, even in the face of doubt and adversity.
This post marks my 83rd consecutive day of sharing on the blog, I have not missed a day since August 8th… During this time, I have tried to push myself to be a little more open. A little more honest. Even when it’s hard, even when I just want to be closed off from the world…
Caught in the threads of life — resilience and reflection hold them in place.
Exhibit of Survival Poetry by Rowan Evans
Pins. They hold me in place. As the glass lowers over my face. Framed. In a frame. On display. Like a dead butterfly.
I have had people in my life who pretended to be on my side—who pretended to care—when really, they just wanted front-row seats to my struggles. They wanted to watch as I unraveled, whispering doubts to freeze me in place, to preserve the ache. To keep me from moving forward. And yet, I still pushed. I still tried.
Threads. Tied to limbs. Marionette. Puppet on strings. They’ve got control of me. Free? Not really.
Those same people tried to talk me out of anything I wanted to do—anything that could bring me closer to the life I wanted. “Why do you want to leave America?” they’d ask. But it’s not my home; it’s just the place I was born. The place I was raised. I’ve never felt like I belong here. Not once.
Everything holds me back—my brain looping their doubts, my own depression and anxiety echoing them back to me. It’s a war on all fronts. And still, I stand.
My thoughts. They flutter and fade in this liminal space. It’s pain— just to be alive. It’s a wonder. A miracle. How have I survived?
Resilience. And reminders from the few who truly see me, who truly believe in me. Without them, I might have given up long ago. But because of them, I’ve kept my empathy alive. I’ve refused apathy. I’ve stayed soft. I’ve kept my heart open and given love freely.
How? How have I made it to thirty-five? Every day I wake up. Surprised.
That surprise isn’t mine anymore. It’s the echo of others’ doubts—ones I no longer answer.
The Rot & The Poet is a confessional dialogue between two voices that have lived within me for over two decades — the one that wants to create, and the one that whispers destruction. It’s the internal war of survival that every artist who’s faced depression knows too well.
This poem is not about defeat; it’s about endurance. It’s about knowing that the shadow doesn’t win just because it speaks louder — and that light, even when trembling, still burns.
“Even shadows need light to exist.” — The Rot & The Poet
The Rot & The Poet Poetry by Rowan Evans
[The Rot] Hello Rowan, it’s me again… The voice that lingers inside your head, The one that whispers, making you wish you were dead. You thought I was gone, but I’m still here, Making you wish you’d just disappear.
[The Poet] Shut up. You’re nothing. A voice that matters not, Just internal rot, Creeping only when I have something to say. You’re just a monster.
[The Rot] Oh, I’m not the monster… That’s you, walking rot on the world. You think you matter? You don’t even know if you’re a boy or a girl. You’re so pathetic.
[The Poet] Pathetic? More like prophetic. I see what the future brings, And it brings clarity. I write as charity, I write to give back to the world. You try to dim that.
[The Rot] You write to give back to the world? You write for a world that wishes you forgotten. Or did you forget? Nobody wants you here. You’ve got a voice—nobody wants to hear.
[The Poet] That’s not true. People are listening… From Germany to Spain, Ireland, Sweden, and Singapore too. Kenya to the Philippines, India, Hungary, and France… I’ve got people that pay attention; It’s my words they consume.
[The Rot] You can think what you want, But you’re nothing without me. Do you think you’d actually be happy? When you thought I was gone, You were still in the dark, wallowing, Still trying to figure out what you wanted.
[The Poet] I knew exactly what I wanted. I was starting to make moves. I was working toward my goals, But then you showed your ugly head again, Tried to twist my thoughts, Tried to make me think I wished to be dead again.
[The Rot] Ha ha… Don’t make me laugh. You’re nothing, remember? You think you’ve got friends, You think you’ve got fans? Do you really think anyone truly understands?
[The Poet] I don’t think I have fans, But I know I have friends. I have people that care, And they tell me all the time.
[The Rot] They’re just lying. Nobody truly cares. If they did, they’d be here.
[The Poet] Fuck you. I won’t let you in again. I won’t let you win again. You won’t push me to the edge, You won’t make me want to jump. I won’t question my worth anymore— Not for you, not for the voice inside my head, Not for anyone that makes me wish I were dead.
[The Rot] Oh, you’re too cute. Rowan, just think for a minute. Think about what you’re saying. You think you can cut me off? You think you’re in control? How long have I been with you? Since you were thirteen… Twenty-two years now?
[The Poet] Twenty-two years, yes. I’ll confess, you’ve had a hold on me. You’ve almost broken me. But I’ve always fought back. I’ve always survived. Look at me—thirty-five, still alive.
[The Rot] Still alive? Maybe. But are you truly surviving?
[The Poet] I’m still breathing, and that’s enough.
[The Rot] Breathing? You’re bleeding. Is that the life you want to live?
[The Poet] Shut up! Just shut up!
[The Rot] Oh, look at you… You’re shaking. Am I getting under your skin? I feel it… I’m so close to breaking you, Making you finally see… You’re nothing without me. You need the pain, you need the hate. You need something you can take and shape.
[The Poet] If you were as strong as you say you are, You wouldn’t disappear in the morning. You’d still be here, keeping me mourning. But the sun will rise, and you’ll fade from my eyes. You’ll be gone from my mind.
[The Rot] Until the sun sets. Then I’m back again, Your only true friend. The one that never leaves, The one who’s stayed through seasons change.
[The Poet] That might be true. You might be my longest companion. The depression, the anxiety— I know you stay, living inside me.
[The Rot] Inside your mind, Inside your marrow. The doubt that creeps in With everything you say. The reason love leaves, And you continue to bleed… The one that keeps your words moving, The self-hate you need.
[The Poet] Then you admit it— You live because I do. You breathe because I write. Every time I put pen to page, You leech a little life from me, But I still create. I still survive.
You’re the shadow, I’m the flame— And shadows can’t exist without the light.
[The Rot] Okay, you’re right. I can’t live without the light. But as long as I’m here, It’s the light you truly fear. You dwell in the shadows, In my domain. You only know you’re alive Because you feel my pain.
[The Poet] You think I need you? When really, it’s you that needs me. You’re the shadow, I’m the flame. Without my fire, There’s no shadow to cast.
Sure, my art thrives in the pain you create, But I thrive in the love, and the light— Everything you hate.
Without me, You’re nothing. Just an afterthought. Without me, There is no you… There is no rot.
It’s me, the core of this being, The heart of the Fourfold Flame, That gives everything in us a name. You think you can break me, But you’ve been trying— For nearly twenty-three years now, You’ve been trying to shatter me.
You’ve been shadowing, Trying to block out the light. But once the light fades… So do you.
If you made it this far and want to read more of my work, you can find it in The Library of Ashes—[here].
Each of these gospels was born from a silence I refused to keep. The 13 Mirrored Gospels is my reckoning with faith, identity, and the inherited wounds of expectation. These are not sermons for the saved — they are psalms for the broken, whispered through smoke and mirrorlight.
Read carefully.
The smoke is watching.
Read carefully. The smoke is always watching.
🖤 The 13 Mirrored Gospels 🖤 Poetry by Rowan Evans
“There are no saints in these gospels— only shadows that learned to speak.” —Rowan Evans
𖤐𓆩 🜏 𓆪𖤐
I. The Gospel of Mirrors
Step inside. Watch yourself rot in reverse. Every smile you wore as armor, now bleeding at the edges. The mirror never lied. You just kept asking the wrong questions.
𖤐𓆩 🜏 𓆪𖤐
II. The Gospel of Silence
Not the silence of peace— the silence after impact. The quiet that follows when every scream is spent, and all that’s left is the echo of your own denial.
𖤐𓆩 🜏 𓆪𖤐
III. The Gospel of Golden Lies
They dipped their cruelty in gold leaf and called it kindness. They said “light saves” while tightening the noose. Shine is not salvation. Shine is strategy.
𖤐𓆩 🜏 𓆪𖤐
IV. The Gospel of the Sainted Wound
She told me pain makes you beautiful. So I made myself a masterpiece. Now they can’t look at me without flinching.
𖤐𓆩 🜏 𓆪𖤐
V. The Gospel of Velvet Ruin
I dressed my rage in elegance— because pretty things bleed quieter. Because if I scream in silk, they call it poetry, not proof.
𖤐𓆩 🜏 𓆪𖤐
VI. The Gospel of the Haloed Knife
They told me love was soft. So when I bled, I thought I was wrong. Turns out, some loves come serrated. Turns out, mine did too.
𖤐𓆩 🜏 𓆪𖤐
VII. The Gospel of the Unknown Reflection
The mirror shows my face, but it isn’t me— just a shadow stitched from language, from names that never fit.
They told me what to be: man, believer, saved— but I only felt the ache between those words.
Now even silence flinches.
𖤐𓆩 🜏 𓆪𖤐
VIII. The Gospel of Smoke-Laced Psalms
I wrote devotion in ash, but they wanted ink. So I choked on incense until my prayers tasted like what they’d believe.
𖤐𓆩 🜏 𓆪𖤐
IX. The Gospel of Unholy Softness
I offered tenderness. They saw weakness. I offered truth. They called it unstable. So now I offer nothing but teeth.
𖤐𓆩 🜏 𓆪𖤐
X. The Gospel of Reverse Reverence
I bowed to nothing— not out of pride, but protection. Every altar I’ve knelt before asked for a piece of me. I’ve run out of offerings.
𖤐𓆩 🜏 𓆪𖤐
XI. The Gospel of Misnamed Miracles
They called my survival a phase. A scream for attention. But I was just trying to exist loud enough to feel real.
𖤐𓆩 🜏 𓆪𖤐
XII. The Gospel of Heretics and Honey
I tasted joy once. Sweet. Brief. But it rotted faster than grief. I keep it in a jar now, like a dead bee. Just in case.
𖤐𓆩 🜏 𓆪𖤐
XIII. The Gospel of the Flame That Didn’t Save Me
They said fire cleanses. But all it did was remind me what burning feels like from the inside.
Poetry by Rowan Evans 