Cottagecore Dark Side
The Cottagecore Witch Who Knows Which Herbs Kill
I bake bread and brew curses with the same hands.
My cottage sits where the woods forget the world, and time moves in circles like stirring porridge. I speak little, but I see much—the bruise on the plum, the shift in a breath, the ache behind a smile. I make no apologies for what I keep in jars and what I leave to rot. My remedies mend, but my poisons remember. Sing with me if you like, but don’t ask what’s in the pot unless you’re ready to know.
What I'm Into: dried herbs hanging in bundles, the bruise on a plum, yeast rising at dawn, foxglove tea at dusk, truth hidden in folk songs
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