I want to be a dangerous thing.
The kind that keeps you restless.
A slow pull toward ruin dressed as fascination.
Come closer, then.
Close enough to mistake the warning for an invitation.
Close enough to feel the sting.
Not love.
Not mercy.
Just the sharp thrill.
In the winter of 1891, before electricity softened the dark, there was said to be a woman who kept an apothecary at the edge of a pine road where the fog settled low against the earth.
Not a physician.
Not entirely a healer.
Something older than that.
She dried herbs from the rafters and labeled glass bottles in fading ink. Villagers came quietly to her door carrying coughs, grief, fevers, heartbreak, sleeplessness, miscarriages, bad dreams, and letters they could not
bear to burn themselves.
At night, after the last lantern in town had gone black, she wrote poetry beside candlelight in the margins of her
remedy books.
Not polished poetry.
Not meant for publication.
Fragments.
Observations.
Warnings.
Lines about longing, death, devotion, winter gardens, and the strange ache of surviving your own life.
Some pages contained recipes beside poems: lavender beside mourning, wormwood beside betrayal, rosehips beside endurance.
Over generations, the apothecary passed quietly from woman to woman. Not always by blood, but by recognition.
A daughter. A niece. A widow. A girl who stayed after everyone else left.
The shelves changed.
The world changed. Wars came. Factories rose. Plastic replaced glass. Convenience replaced ritual.
But certain things endured: the drying herbs, the handwritten labels, the instinct to make something healing with your own hands, the habit of sitting awake after midnight thinking too deeply beside a single light source.
The family line became scattered over time. Some abandoned the practice entirely. Others hid it beneath ordinary lives: waitresses, mothers, caregivers, women who learned to survive quietly.
Yet the old notebooks remained.
Pressed flowers between pages. Tea stains. Burn marks from candles. Half-finished poems. Measurements written as “a handful,” “a pinch,” “until the scent changes.”
And now, generations later, the work resurfaces again, not as a perfect recreation of the past, but as a continuation of it.
A modern keeper of the apothecary.
Someone standing between worlds: caregiver and creator, practical and mystical, worn down yet imaginative, building warmth from hardship.
The herbs return to the shelves. The labels return to the jars. The poetry returns beside the remedies.
And somewhere in the lineage of women who survived by tending both wounds and beauty, the candle is lit again.
I’ve been shown
what lives in your mouth
lies
residing deep within
black hole, abyss
all engulfing—
all enraged—
all inevitable
a mist
a mist that stains