There is nothing beautiful about dying before your time,
or a mother’s wailing because no sewing kit will ever provide the means to stitch up her broken heart,
there is nothing glamorous about a body writhing in pain as it’s gripped by the symptoms of withdrawal,
and there is nothing alluring about local cemeteries packed with fresh headstones with dates going back less than three decades.
Death is not flowery and symbolic, it’s heart-wrenchingly permanent.