The Alchemist

I measure the chemistry in my medicine

like I do in my self-care routine,

spoons and scales,

droppers and rituals,

as if balance can be brewed,

as if peace can be poured out in precise doses.

The mirror watches, unblinking,

Its surface clouded with questions—

How much is too much?

How little leaves me undone?

I trace the edge of a blister pack,

counting time in milligrams,

fingertips skimming the curve

of a half-empty bottle.

Everything is measured,

The water that burns my skin,

The oils that smooth the edges,

The pills that straighten the line between

here and not quite here.

But there’s no formula for this—

The alchemy of staying whole,

The bitter aftertaste of hope,

The weight of a breath taken too deeply.

I stir, I swallow, I wait—

always waiting

for the balance to tip.