Author’s Note

I’ve written around this feeling for years — in metaphors, in longing, in coded language about distance and departure.

This is the first time I’ve said it this plainly.

For most of my life, I’ve felt like a visitor in the place I was born. Not in a dramatic way. Not in a rebellious way. Just in a quiet, persistent way that never left.

This piece isn’t about anger. It isn’t about rejection.

It’s about finally naming what I’ve always known—
that sometimes “home” is assigned to you,
and sometimes it’s something you’re still moving toward.

— Rowan Evans

Just Visiting
Poetry by Rowan Evans

I’ve been talking about it a lot lately,
this feeling of wanting to escape
that I’ve had since I was just a baby.
I was forced to call this place home,
because this is where I was born—
it never felt like home,
just a place I was visiting.

Every day in school—
I’d recite the pledge,
like a good
little patriot
should.
But I didn’t believe in it,
there was no allegiance in it.

They say they’re proud to be an American,
well me? I’ve never been,
because this is just a place to me.
I’ve said it before, once in this poem alone—
this place has never been my home.

And I’ve lived all across it.
Never once have I have felt planted,
no roots took hold.
Felt like a tourist—
in a place I was
supposed to belong.

But I’ve known for a while now,
my place is not within these borders.
This place will never be
home for me.
But it will always be
a part of me. (Sadly.)

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