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Poetry by Rowan Evans

Tag: SurvivorStories

  • The Scourge They Named in Whispered Psalms – A Neo-Gothic Confessional Romanticism Manfiesto

    Rowan Evans
    A gothic cathedral interior bathed in cold blue light. In the foreground, a defiant woman in black reaches forward, while behind her looms a shadowy silhouette pierced by arrows. Her long hair and dress ripple like smoke, embodying both vulnerability and strength.
    “They said I was a prophecy, a creature carved in smoke and sin…”
    A visual echo of the hunted girl turned heretic, the shadow we carry and survive.

    This isn’t just a poem. It’s the ache of being seen too little—or too much. Of being told you’re ‘too much’ when you’re just trying to exist honestly.

    The Scourge They Named in Whispered Psalms is a manifesto from the margins – a declaration of identity, resilience, and sisterhood in the face of erasure. It belongs to all who have been misnamed, misunderstood, or made to feel monstrous for simply being.

    I invite you to stand with me – not behind or ahead – but here. Together.

    “The Scourge They Named in Whispered Psalms”
    Poetry by Rowan Evans
    (A Neo-Gothic Confessional Romanticism Manifesto)

    They said I was a prophecy,
    a creature carved in smoke and sin,
    the girl who slipped through cracks in sermons—
    a heretic with velvet skin.

    I walk in heels upon their myths,
    each step a hymn they tried to burn,
    a flame that dared to name itself
    before their rigid tongues could turn.

    How monstrous, that I raise my voice
    to praise the worth of every woman—
    how dare I speak of sisterhood
    with scars they say I wasn’t born in.

    I am the shame beneath their altars,
    the blush they curse but cannot name,
    a sacrament in satin bones
    who bleeds, yet isn’t held the same.

    I was never him. I was silence.
    A chrysalis misnamed by fate.
    But even wrapped in borrowed tones,
    I trembled like a bride in wait.

    They say I steal what isn’t mine—
    as though divinity is rationed.
    As if my ribs were not first broken
    to give my soul a rightful fashion.

    Do you think it makes me stronger?
    That I carry this war in my marrow?
    No—
    It only means I’ve learned to sing
    while pulling arrows from my shadow.

    I’m not here to replace you,
    or to climb atop your grief-wrought throne.
    I only ever wanted space
    to write a name that felt like home.

    So yes, be scared. I’m dangerous.
    I love too hard. I dream too loud.
    I dare to say I’m beautiful
    without the world’s reluctant bow.

    Let them say I have advantage—
    let them spit it like a curse.
    But if I write the stars in anguish,
    it’s not to claim that I hurt worse.

    It’s just—I know what it’s to be
    the hunted girl in holy war.
    And still I’d reach for every hand
    who ever felt they could be more.

    You don’t need to kneel beside me.
    But sister, won’t you stand?
    Not behind—nor far ahead—
    just here. Together. Hand in hand.

    [About Poem]

    This piece is rooted in a genre I created: Neo-Gothic Confessional Romanticism—a fusion of gothic imagery, personal truth, sacred longing, and emotional rebellion. Inspired by the legacy of Sylvia Plath, Anne Sexton, Sappho, and modern poetic voices, this poem speaks to those of us made to feel like heretics simply for existing as ourselves.

    It is my poetic prayer for trans women, queer femmes, sacred misfits, and anyone who has ever been othered in the name of tradition. It holds both fire and softness—a torch lit from the ache of being erased, and the quiet hope of being seen.

    A woman in a black gown sits behind a stained-glass altar, wearing a crown of thorns and halo of iron. Candles glow around her as blood-red drapes pool like velvet fire. The glass behind her bears the silhouette of a shattering figure, suggesting both violence and divinity.
    A sacrament in satin bones.
    The girl they named a scourge now sits in sanctuary—unburned, unbroken, and holy in her own name.

    How does this poem resonate with your own experiences of identity and visibility?

    What lines stood out to you most, and why?

    Have you ever felt like the “hunted girl in holy war”? What helped you keep going?

    Share your thoughts in the comments or your own creative work. Your voice is welcome here.

  • The Pilgrim Road Is Not Paved in Gold – A Poem About Healing and Resilience

    Rowan Evans

    This poem was born out of quiet reflection and fierce resilience.
    It’s for anyone who’s ever felt like healing was messy, sacred, and nonlinear.

    “The Pilgrim Road Is Not Paved in Gold” is a reminder that our paths don’t have to look the same for our pain – or our perseverance – to be valid.
    Whether you’re crawling, sprinting, or standing still: your journey matters.

    You’re not alone on this road.

    “The Pilgrim Road Is Not Paved in Gold”
    (A Poem About Healing and Resilience)

    The path to healing is not straight—
    it coils like a serpent through stone and shadow,
    etched into the spine of a mountain
    too proud to bend to mercy.

    Some days, I take the road slow—
    counting each breath like rosary beads,
    to keep from slipping on loose truth,
    on grief disguised as gravel.

    Other days, I run—
    boot soles striking rhythm against fate,
    wind howling benedictions in my ears,
    like the ghosts of every version of me
    that died to bring this one forth.

    You—who climb beside me—
    do not compare your ridge to mine.
    Maybe your trail is lit by lanterns,
    or paved with the prayers of softer years.
    But I, too, was given a summit.
    And I’ll reach it,
    even if my knees bleed against jagged grace.

    We are all ascending
    with burdens stitched to our backs,
    sacred scars and trembling hope
    like banners in the wind.
    Some sing.
    Some crawl.
    Some forget why they started at all.

    But I remember—
    the summit is not salvation.
    It is simply a place
    where I will stand beneath open sky
    and whisper: I made it.

    So I will not rush.
    I will not stray.
    Each step is a vow.
    Each stone, a psalm.
    And I keep my eyes
    on the road—
    not to avoid the fall,
    but to honor the rise.

    🖋️ Author’s Note:

    This piece continues a theme I’ve been exploring recently – the sacredness of survival. If you connected with Still Here or The Hollow Sea, I hope this one feels like a hand on your shoulder, a whispered “keep going.”

    We are all pilgrims in our own way.

    —

    💬 I’d love to hear how this poem resonated with you. Feel free to leave a comment or reach out directly:
    ✉️ rowan@poetrybyrowans.com

    —

    🔗 You Might Also Like:

    • Still Here – A Poem About Suicidal Thoughts, Survival, and Hope.
    • The Hollow Sea – A Poem About Surviving Depression and Numbness.

    • “To the Ones Who Feel Like Ghosts” – A Poignant Poem on Healing, Hope, and Becoming

  • Infinity Within (+ “Roll Credits” and “Post-Credit Scene)

    Rowan Evans

    They say,
    “You’re not depressed, that’s not what I see.”
    But that’s my secret, Cap—
    I am the snap between sanity and silence,
    Dust in the wind,
    Fading while pretending to remain whole.

    You see a Stark exterior—
    But my mind’s a multiverse of madness,
    Where grief loops like Loki’s lies,
    Where hope wears a tattered cape,
    Heavy with the weight of lost timelines.

    I love like Wanda—
    Chaotic, red-threaded, rewritten by pain.
    My heart built its Vision
    Just to watch it shatter… again and again.

    Depression doesn’t wear a villain’s mask.
    It dons a Spidey suit,
    Smiles while falling,
    Cracking jokes before hitting the pavement.

    I feel it—
    That Spidey-sense tingling in my bones,
    A warning wired into my skin.
    Every shadow, every silence,
    A possible threat.
    My nerves are webbed,
    Strung taut between panic and performance,
    Vibrating with dangers
    That may not be real—
    But always feel it.

    Some days,
    I feel like Rogue—
    Every brush with pain clings to my skin,
    Not my own,
    But absorbed all the same.
    Empathy isn’t soft,
    It’s a silent thief—
    Stealing pieces of me to soothe others,
    Until I forget where I end
    And they begin.

    And when I disappear—
    Not from your touch,
    But from my own reflection—
    I think of Nightcrawler,
    Praying in shadow,
    Carrying sin in his silhouette.
    A teleporting ghost
    Longing for heaven
    Yet trapped in hell-blue skin.

    I understand him.
    The way he smiles with sorrow in his spine,
    Faith stitched into the torn hem
    Of self-worth.

    And Gambit—
    He plays it cool,
    Cloaked in charm and kinetic flares,
    But his heart is a deck of wild cards,
    Marked by trauma and longing.
    He knows how to love
    Like a gamble.
    Every kiss a risk,
    Every glance a dare.

    I’ve been them all—
    The empath, the trickster, the saint in shadow—
    But none more than Sentry.
    Golden god, savior of a fractured world…
    Until The Void whispers in his ear.
    Hero and horror,
    Two halves sharing the same skin.
    Like me—
    Rowan in the light,
    Nightshade in the dark.

    You love my shine,
    But can you hold me
    When my shadow rises?

    The Void isn’t evil.
    It’s a wound that screams.
    It’s every lie I believed about myself,
    Given shape, given teeth.
    It’s the weight I wear,
    Even when I soar.

    Still—
    You reached out like Carol in the cosmos,
    Your light too bright for my black hole bones.
    You held me when I snapped—
    Not out of existence,
    But back into it.

    I am forged like Mjolnir,
    Born in thunder,
    Tempered in trauma,
    Wielded only by the brave who see worth
    Where others see ruin.

    You…
    You are my arc reactor,
    Not built to keep me alive,
    But to remind me why I want to be.

    You found the Hydra lies within me,
    The voices that whisper, “You’re not enough.”
    But you looked through the fog,
    Like Daredevil in the dark,
    And heard the truth beneath the static.

    With every kiss, you defy physics—
    A love that bends reality like Strange’s spell,
    Pulling me back from the mirror dimension
    Where my worst fears grin with Thanos’ calm.

    We are not gods,
    But fractured souls
    Stitched together by fate and fire.
    I am chaos cloaked in calm—
    A Scarlet soul in mourning.

    But with you—
    Even my Deadpool thoughts
    Can soften,
    Even my Hulk rage
    Can breathe.

    So if I vanish again into the blip of my brain,
    Promise me, love—
    Be my Endgame.
    Snap your fingers,
    And bring me back home.

    Roll Credits…

    “Infinity Within”
    A Poetic Production by Rowan Evans

    Based on characters created by Marvel Comics
    And all the multiverses trapped in Rowan’s brain.

    Starring:

    Wanda Maximoff / The Scarlet Witch
    as The Heart Unhinged by Grief
    — Played by Emotional Consequence

    Vision
    as The Love We Build from Memory
    — Played by Tragic Idealism

    Peter Parker / Spider-Man
    as The Smile Before the Fall
    — Played by Masked Empathy

    Logan / Wolverine
    as The Blade We Hide Behind Scars
    — Played by Controlled Rage

    Marie D’Ancanto / Rogue
    as The Skin That Remembers Pain
    — Played by Reluctant Empath

    Kurt Wagner / Nightcrawler
    as The Faith-Filled Shadow
    — Played by Hope in Disguise

    Remy LeBeau / Gambit
    as The Risk We Call Romance
    — Played by Feral Charm

    Robert Reynolds / Sentry
    as The Light That Carries The Void
    — Played by Duality Incarnate

    Carol Danvers / Captain Marvel
    as The Star That Doesn’t Burn Out
    — Played by Undeniable Light

    Stephen Strange / Doctor Strange
    as The Spell That Unwinds Reality
    — Played by Controlled Chaos

    Matt Murdock / Daredevil
    as The One Who Listens Through the Noise
    — Played by Justice in Shadows

    Wade Wilson / Deadpool
    as The Comic Relief That Cuts Too Close
    — Played by Himself (unfortunately)

    Nick Fury
    as The Recruiter of Broken Legends
    — Played by Smirking Gravitas

    Featuring:
    An original role by Rowan Evans
    as The Verse Vindicator, Nightshade of Narratives,
    Bearer of the Emotional Gauntlet
    — Played by the one who’s lived every line

    Directed by: Trauma & Transformation
    Written by: Self-Awareness in a Cape
    Cinematography by: Glaring Neon & Gentle Moonlight
    Edited by: Anxiety, with a guest appearance from Healing
    Music by: Panic Attacks at 3am (Unplugged Version)

    Makeup & Wardrobe:
    Dysphoria & Confidence, co-styling Reality

    Produced by:
    Hope Studios
    In collaboration with
    The Department of Overthinking & Emotional Alchemy

    Special Thanks to:
    The Unseen Battles
    The Friends Who Stayed
    The Lovers Who Left
    The Voices That Were Quietly Wrong
    And the Poetry That Was Always Right

    FADE TO BLACK.

    [Post-Credit Scene – “Infinity Within”]

    Rain slicked the rooftop in the city where metaphors wore masks and healing was a contact sport. Rowan Evans sat on the ledge like she’d been born there—poised between collapse and climax, drinking day-old coffee from a chipped mug that read “World’s Okayest Multiversal Threat.”

    A subtle hum disrupted the silence—portal magic. Somewhere off to the side, sparks flared gold and a portal closed before the camera could catch a full glimpse. A red cloak fluttered out of sight.

    Then: the calculated click of dress shoes. The glint of a single eye under the brim of a leather hat.

    Nick Fury.
    Swaggering out of the shadows like he invented them.

    “So you’re the poet everyone keeps quoting on their burner accounts,” he said, holding up a device that glowed with emotional metrics, social ripple data, and an alarming number of likes on poems tagged #emotionaldamagenation.

    He tapped the screen. “You broke four algorithms. Three hearts. And pissed off the TVA with that ‘re-writing fate in verse’ bit. I like your style.”

    Rowan didn’t even look at him. She just raised the mug in salute.

    “You here to offer me a publishing deal or a purpose?”

    Fury snorted. “Neither. I’m here to offer you a classified mission in Emotional Artillery. The universe has enough heroes who punch. It needs someone who breaks people open—with words.”

    Behind him, a voice chimed in:
    “I told you she’d be perfect.”

    Enter Wanda Maximoff, arms crossed, standing at the edge of another rooftop across the alley, her red magic flickering around her fingers.
    “She bends reality with raw honesty. She’s not a threat—she’s an evolution.”

    Then—just for one blink—Deadpool popped into frame, upside down behind Rowan like he’d been hanging from an invisible wire the entire time.
    “Did someone say evolution? Because I’m evolving too—emotionally. Kinda. Anyway, I stan this crossover.”
    He vanishes before Fury can throw a dagger-shaped glare his way.

    Fury turns back to Rowan, dead serious but eyes dancing with grudging respect.

    “We’re forming something new. Realness Initiative. And I want you leading the emotional recon. Welcome to the team, Verse Vindicator.”

    Rowan stood, her silhouette lit by neon and moonlight, cloak snapping behind her like punctuation at the end of a brutally honest sentence. She glanced toward the audience with that now-signature smirk.

    “Tell the universe to brace itself. I write like I bleed, and I’ve got a full goddamn anthology coming.”

    CUT TO BLACK.

    In white letters, glowing with power, like a spell cast in silence:

    Rowan Evans will return…

    …and this time, she’s bringing a notebook that bites back.

  • Table of Judgement: Volume III (B.D. Nightshade)

    Rowan Evans

    Content Warning:
    This poem contains explicit depictions of violence, abuse, and retribution. It touches on sensitive subjects such as grooming, sexual assault, complicity in the face of injustice, human trafficking, and war crimes. Readers should proceed with caution, as the themes explored in this work may be triggering for some. This poem is intended for mature audiences and is a work of fiction that seeks to explore vengeance, justice, and the consequences of unchecked power and harm.

    Please read with caution, and know that this series is not intended to glorify violence but to reflect the pain, rage, and consequences that often go unnoticed or unpunished in the real world.

    Seven more shadows stir.
    Seven more await their fate.

    The knives are fewer now—
    Not from mercy, but from use.
    Their edges whisper memories,
    Still stained with unrepentance.

    Tonight, the table returns.
    Seven chairs, seven fates,
    Seven shadows dragged from hiding.
    Each thinks they can run.
    Each forgot—
    Vengeance remembers.

    First: The Groomer Teacher
    He taught literature like seduction.
    Underlined consent with a wink,
    Graded innocence on a curve.
    Gave praise with too many hands.
    Now he’s pinned beneath a blackboard,
    His lessons returned in silence and steel.
    I staple every love note he wrote to skin
    He once dared touch.
    He says he only wanted to inspire.
    So I make him inspirational art.
    Blood as ink. Truth as canvas.

    Second: The Human Resources Manager
    She passed around cupcakes on birthdays,
    But passed over every complaint.
    Buried trauma in manila folders,
    Told victims to be professional.
    Now I file her under complicit.
    Each page of silence becomes a lash.
    I build her a cubicle from every name she erased.
    Inside it, her voice cannot leave—
    Just like theirs never did.

    Third: The ICE Agent
    He wore cruelty like a uniform.
    Said “orders” while dragging toddlers away.
    Stamped paperwork soaked in lullabies.
    Built cages and called it law.
    Now I lock him in a cell of memory—
    Walls made from lullabies interrupted.
    I tattoo their names on his arms
    So he never forgets who he unmade.
    The key melts in front of him.
    He screams like a father now.

    Fourth: The Frat Brother
    His laughter echoes in solo cups.
    Shot after shot, shame drowned in alcohol.
    He called her a myth, a mistake,
    As if blackouts erased guilt.
    Now he drinks from a bottle
    Filled with her memory—undiluted, unforgiving.
    Each swallow burns the truth into his bones.
    I leave him slumped in silence,
    Party over, cameras rolling.
    Replay on loop.

    Fifth: The “Pick-Me” Woman
    She climbed their shoulders
    By stepping on broken backs.
    Called survivors jealous,
    Said they “wanted the attention.”
    Now I seat her in a hall of mirrors.
    Each one shows the woman she betrayed.
    I peel back her words until only envy remains.
    She cries for her reputation—
    Too bad it’s the only thing she ever loved.

    Sixth: The Landlord Slumlord
    He charged gold for rot.
    Turned homes into health hazards,
    Blamed poverty for his greed.
    Called heat a luxury.
    Now he shivers in the dark,
    Air thick with mold and vermin songs.
    I padlock every exit with unpaid rent.
    He begs for a repair request.
    I send rats instead.

    Seventh: The War Criminal in a Suit
    Never fired a gun,
    But his pen was a missile.
    Signed cities into rubble,
    Children into statistics.
    Called it “strategy.”
    Now I drop silence like bombs.
    His ears ring with names he never learned.
    I dress him in oil-slick skin,
    Force him to drink from the well he poisoned.
    His empire burns with no flag to wave.

    The knives are dull now.
    The flames are tall.
    Seven new candles flicker—
    Not for them.
    Never for them.

    There is no forgiveness
    In the blade’s reflection.
    Only truth,
    And the hand that dares to hold it.

    But the dark is never empty.
    Seven more shadows stir.
    Seven more await their fate.
    And I—B.D. Nightshade wait, too—
    Patient as the grave.

    Author’s Note:
    Vengeance is a complex, deeply personal concept. In Table of Judgment: Volume III, I explore the idea of retribution—not as a simple act of revenge, but as a reckoning for those who have inflicted harm, whether through direct action or silent complicity. These figures are not faceless villains, but representations of broader societal ills: the abusers, the enablers, the silent bystanders. The blade of justice is sharp, and the flames of truth burn without mercy.

    This poem is a meditation on justice—both personal and collective—and the long-lasting impact of those who perpetuate harm. It is a reminder that the past cannot be erased, and the consequences of one’s actions follow them into the dark. While this work is dark and intense, it is also an outlet for those who have felt powerless, a space where the scales of justice can be balanced, even if only in the realm of imagination and poetry.

  • Table of Judgement: Volume II (B.D. Nightshade)

    Rowan Evans

    Content Warning
    This poem contains graphic depictions of violence, abuse, sexual assault, systemic injustice, revenge, and trauma. It explores themes of righteous vengeance, horror, and divine retribution through a dark, poetic lens. Reader discretion is strongly advised, especially for survivors of abuse or trauma.

    The blades have rusted since last we met.
    But rust only sharpens resolve.
    The table returns—
    Its wood soaked in memory,
    Its restraints hungry for guilt.
    Justice was not a one-night feast.
    No—monsters breed in silence,
    And I am silence undone.

    First: The Foster Parents
    She called it “a blessing”—that monthly check.
    Said the child should be grateful for a roof.
    But the bruises weren’t from beams,
    And the screams didn’t echo from joy.
    He locked the child in closets lined with scripture.
    She washed the blood from his fists,
    Then set the table like nothing was broken.
    Now they sit strapped together—
    Hands sewn to each other’s shame.
    I force-feed them silence in spoonfuls,
    Play lullabies of sobs they ignored.
    The belt he used now flays his own tongue.
    Her eyes forced open to watch—
    Just like she used to.

    Second: The Revenge Porn Ex
    He thought power was pressing “upload.”
    Framed her in pixels, called it “freedom.”
    She lost everything.
    He gained followers.
    Now he’s the exhibit.
    Naked and looped on every wall,
    His body becomes his prison,
    Each image a tattoo of consent denied.
    His screams aren’t blurred.
    His shame isn’t edited.
    And no one comes to take it down.

    Third: The Conversion Therapist
    She laid hands not to heal,
    But to erase.
    Told queer teens their love was illness,
    That God would only listen if they bled.
    She sang psalms while they shattered.
    Now she kneels on broken glass,
    The verses she preached carved into mirrors,
    So every reflection mocks her grace.
    Her tongue sewn to a rosary,
    Each bead a life she bent—
    Snapped straight until they broke.

    Fourth: The Trigger-Happy Cop
    He saw skin and called it threat.
    Saw fear and drew steel.
    Said the bullet was “procedure,”
    Said the boy “matched the description.”
    But the body was innocent.
    The silence, deafening.
    Now he’s pinned beneath a spotlight,
    His badge melted down,
    Dripped into his eyes—
    So he sees,
    For the first time,
    What his justice really looks like.
    No shield.
    No radio.
    Only the weight of names carved
    Into his hollowed chest—
    Each one a verdict he’ll never escape.

    Fifth: The Therapist Who Crossed the Line
    She called him “safe.”
    He called her “special.”
    Said no one else would understand.
    Touched her scars with hunger,
    Then blamed her for bleeding.
    Now he lies on his own couch,
    Sedated in shame.
    Every time he closes his eyes,
    She speaks—
    And he listens, finally.
    Every “I love you” he twisted
    Now chokes him like a noose.

    Sixth: The Wealthy Rapist
    He wore tailored suits and courtroom smiles.
    Said she lied,
    Then paid her to disappear.
    But guilt doesn’t take a check.
    Now he’s stripped of silk and silence,
    His name stitched to every wound she hid.
    I press gavel-shaped brands into his chest,
    Each one a truth he tried to bury.
    Now, he’s the story.
    And she’s finally free.

    Seventh: The Online Predator
    He typed sweet lies in the dark,
    Promised safety, then devoured it.
    Left young girls gutted by shame.
    He called it “just talking.”
    Now, I bind his fingers to the keyboard—
    Force him to scroll through every name,
    Every cry he deleted.
    I turn the screen into a mirror.
    He types apology after apology,
    And each one burns his skin.

    And me—
    I stand again.
    The blade reborn.
    Seven new candles lit.
    Not for forgiveness.
    Not for peace.
    But so no one forgets.
    The table is not justice.
    It’s memory made flesh.

    And I am still here.
    Unholy.
    Unkind.
    Unapologetic.
    The shadow that watches
    When the system looks away.

    Author’s Note:
    This piece was written as an act of catharsis and creative reclamation. “Table of Judgment: Volume II” channels the voice of B.D. Nightshade—my poetic embodiment of wrath, vengeance, and divine justice. It is not meant to glorify violence, but to confront the horrors too often dismissed, silenced, or ignored by society and the systems meant to protect us.


    Writing this was painful—but necessary. If you made it through, thank you for bearing witness. And if you saw a piece of your own pain reflected here, I see you. You are not alone.
    — Rowan Evans

  • Table of Judgement: Vol. I (B.D. Nightshade)

    Rowan Evans

    Content Note:
    This poem contains vivid depictions of trauma, including sexual assault, child abuse, domestic violence, human trafficking, religious abuse, medical abuse, and graphic descriptions of vigilante justice. Reader discretion is strongly advised. Please take care while reading.

    I am not holy.
    I am not kind.
    But I am coming.
    For every shadow that thinks it can hide.

    I stand before him, sharpening knives—
    Each blade sings a lullaby in steel,
    Echoing screams not yet spilled.
    He lays strapped to the table,
    His wrists worn raw from resistance.
    He called it “just a misunderstanding.”
    Said she “asked for it,”
    Her dress, her smile, her drink a signal.
    Now I signal back—with silence and a scalpel,
    Etching apologies he’ll never mean
    Into the flesh of his trembling face.
    I carve out the smirk he wore in court
    When she cried behind closed eyes.
    His voice breaks as her memory blooms in red.
    I whisper, “Do you feel misunderstood now?”

    The preacher follows,
    Still mouthing verses between ragged sobs.
    He who touched in the name of grace,
    Laid hands on innocence and baptized it in shame.
    Told her body was a temple—
    One he visited in the dark.
    Now I anoint him in holy flame.
    Trace crucifixes in gasoline,
    Sear scripture into his chest,
    Each burn a passage he twisted.
    Let the angels turn their eyes away,
    Let the heavens choke on his pleas.
    Your God didn’t stop you.
    He won’t stop me.

    Third comes the lover.
    Gaslight king, puppetmaster,
    The alchemist of self-doubt.
    He turned “I love you” into a leash,
    Told her the bruises were dreams,
    That her panic was drama,
    That she broke things—when it was always him.
    I give him a mirror and a mask made of glass,
    Slice truth across his tongue,
    So he chokes every time he tries to lie.
    He begs, “I didn’t hit her.”
    I say nothing.
    She didn’t need bruises to bleed.

    She walks in next—
    The friend who laughed when it happened.
    She passed the drink.
    Watched her stumble.
    Left her in a room full of wolves.
    Said it was “just one night.”
    One night that swallowed decades.
    Now she’s gagged with the silence she gave,
    Each tooth yanked for every “I didn’t see.”
    I let the drip of guilt echo in the basin,
    So slow, it becomes a scream.
    She cries, not for her—but for herself.
    Typical.

    And then the uncle.
    No introduction needed.
    He knows why he’s here.
    His eyes scan the room for exits—
    Funny, how he gave her none.
    He said it was “just a game,”
    A “secret” they would keep.
    Now I tattoo every secret on his skin
    With needles tipped in venom.
    Every thrust of pain is a childhood reclaimed.
    I bind his hands with tiny shoes,
    And break his bones to the rhythm
    Of nursery rhymes.

    Sixth was a doctor,
    A healer by name, butcher by act.
    He diagnosed weakness in rebellion,
    “Fixed” what wasn’t broken—
    Lobotomized dissent, shocked grief into silence.
    His clipboard weighed more than souls.
    Now I strap him to the same bed
    He used like a throne.
    Inject truth into his veins,
    His screams pure, sterile, and… finally real.
    Let him rot in his own white coat.

    The last is a trafficker,
    Dealer of dreams turned nightmares.
    He sold little girls for money and men.
    Branded their worth on their thighs,
    And slept like a king while they bled.
    I strip him bare,
    Force him to wear the names of those he broke.
    With every scream he offers,
    I count another name, another child.
    He doesn’t last long.
    Cowards rarely do.

    And now, the table is empty.
    The blades are dull.
    The floor is slick with justice.
    I light a candle for each soul they stole.
    Seven flames flicker—none for them.
    Not one prayer.
    Not one plea.

    Because I do not ask forgiveness
    From gods who watched
    And did nothing.
    Who stayed silent while hymns turned to screams.
    Where were they when the children wept?
    When innocence died in locked bedrooms
    And courtroom lies?
    If heaven won’t hold these monsters to fire,
    Then I will.
    If the angels won’t draw their swords,
    Then I’ll become the blade.

    I am not holy.
    I am not kind.
    But I am coming.
    For every shadow that thinks it can hide.

    Author’s Note (from Rowan Evans):
    This piece came from a place beyond me—voiced through B.D. Nightshade, a facet of my writing that channels the rage and vengeance that survivors are so often denied space to feel. While I, Rowan, do not condone violence, I understand the emotional truth in needing justice when the world remains silent. If you are a survivor reading this, know that your pain is valid, your story matters, and you are not alone. Please care for yourself in whatever way you need right now.