I’ve been watching The Apothecary Diaries lately. At first, it felt like a slow burn. But then Sheiklan happened, and suddenly, all the softness turned sharp.

It reminded me of Memoirs of a Geisha. Of Korean historical dramas. Of all the stories where women were dressed like goddesses but treated like ghosts. Where they waited years in painted silence, hoping for love that never arrived.

Lulan’s mother chased the emperor’s affection her whole life. She thought being chosen by him would make her worthy. She missed the man who loved her as she was. She couldn’t see him. Not until the end. And by then, the damage had already spilled out like ink across her daughter’s life.

Lulan’s story wrecked me. She embraced the role of villain to protect the last sliver of her mother’s pride. She poisoned children, not from cruelty, but mercy. Because she knew they’d be slaughtered anyway. That’s not evil. That’s a girl born into a world that gave her no kind choices. That’s grief pretending to be steel.

And so I wrote this poem.

For her.

For all of them.

For every woman who was left to rot in a golden cage and still chose to love anyway.

“The Concubine Who Was Never Visited”

By the light of one who waits

I was chosen once.

Not for love, but for the shimmer of my skin under candlelight.

They brought me in like silk on a breeze, young, silent, obedient.

They said I would see the king.

But seasons passed.

And I never heard his footsteps.

At first, I waited with the others,

combing my hair just in case tonight was mine.

I painted my lips red with crushed petals.

I slept on one side of the bed, his side, so it would stay untouched.

So it would stay hopeful.

But he never came.

And no one mourns the ones the king forgets.

The favored concubines grew radiant under his gaze.

Their bellies swelled. Their laughter echoed.

And I?

I became a shadow behind silks and censers.

Alive in body,

but invisible in spirit.

I wrote poems in the dust on my windowsill.

I named the stars in the courtyard sky.

I learned to cradle my own longing,

like a child no one else could see.

I was not loved.

But I loved, anyway.

I was not remembered.

But I remembered him.

And when the servants whispered of my fading youth,

I smiled.

Because I knew:

Even unchosen,

I was still more than a waiting room.

—————————

To all the concubines who were never visited:

You were not furniture.

You were not less.

You were whole stories the king never took the time to read.

You deserved to be loved as fully as you were loyal.

And even though history forgot your names,

we see you now.

We remember.

We light a candle in your honor, not as an apology,

but as a rebellion.

You were not wrong for hoping.

And neither is the woman today,

who waits quietly

for a man who only visits her heart in dreams.