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Poetry by Rowan Evans

Tag: TWSexualAssault

  • 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.