Things are not what they seem to be, you say
when you light up that cigarette and puffed a smoke
“This isn’t vice, this is freedom,” as you exhale
a white cloud of toxin, the smell
stays on my shirt. I hate it but it is my only lingering memory of you
when you died from lung cancer.

I realized that the human brain can be deceived by narcotics
you can forget you are jobless, broke, lonely and unloved.

The tattoo on your skin were not warning signs you’re a delinquent
instead, it was a certificate that you survived a crash
you liked it so much you had it written on your flesh.

There were moments that I heard you crying from your bedroom, but you said
it wasn’t depression, it was a release
but there was blood painted on your wrist the next day.

Everybody knew you were the clown, but I realized you had painted brows after you shaved it
months before.
When you made that joke during a drinking session and beer bottles clinked to your name,
nobody realized you were already dead.

This is not written as a trigger. If you are undergoing similar circumstances, I want you to know that many others braved the storm and lived. You can live. Depression is just a long, dark tunnel that, at some point of your life, you had to pass through. Your life isn’t that tunnel. Your life is waaaay bigger. Someone, somewhere, will reach out their hand to you. You’re not alone in your journey. You are not unloved.