deviantgene

To those who are okay with reading a wall of text
In the year of Diet Cokes and #NoFilter lies,
We engineered an illusion and named it honesty.
We woke up with mascara-smudged eyes,
Posted it, tagged it ‘real,’
Then filtered the pain until even grief looked aesthetic.

We spoke about mental health on Instagram,
Tutted sympathetically at the headline
of another stress-related suicide —
and then scrolled on.
To the next trend.
The next dance.
The next distraction that didn’t demand too much.

Mental health became a hashtag.
A trend in corporate decks.
A checkbox in HR manuals.
A pastel post that said “it’s okay to not be okay”
Right before it muted the ones who actually weren’t.

Institutions paid lip service
In brochures and webinars,
While cutting budgets,
Silencing breakdowns,
And punishing those who cracked in public.

We held space for anxiety —
As long as it wore a suit.
We hugged the high-functioning,
But ghosted the ones who spiraled too loud.

We said “talk to someone” —
But no one stayed when the screaming got real.
We called it self-care,
But it was just isolation with a sepia filter.

Because healing was only respected
When it came with yoga mats, curated journals,
And a promise not to disturb anyone else’s peace.

People didn’t just die —
They disappeared.
Off rooftops. Into silence.
Behind login screens.
And we called it a phase. A moment. A glitch in their programming.

Some snapped and took others with them —
And we turned it into content.
Another headline. Another think piece.
Another swipe.

Because in a world where no one felt seen,
Snuffing someone out
Felt like proof that we existed.

We didn’t flinch
When another star went dark in a sky of millions.
Because we never looked up.
Only inward. Only down.
Only at ourselves —
Backlit. Perfect. Alone.