They tell us not to talk about the “s word”
as if that alone could trigger a final avalanche,
or push someone over the edge of a bridge,
make them fly solo, so beautifully, one last time,
til they hit the heavy sidewalk—a final crescendo.
They tell us not to talk about the “s word”
because in talking about it, we could
trigger ourselves back in time to that time
when we felt like every other “suitable” option was unsuitable.
They tell us not to talk about the “s word”
but if we must, we must do so not in blunt, sharp shouts,
but in metaphorical whispers
like if we screamed of our pain too loudly to others,
they’d look at us with judgmental eyes that were stained
with misunderstandings and uncomfortability.
And, clearly, we’re not strong enough to handle
—sorry, ignore—
the misunderstood opinions of others
who have never tip-toed
in a slow dance with death, willingly.
Clearly, we who are survivors
of the deepest Hell should be wary
of offending people with our stories of valor and glory.
It’s survival of the fucking fittest—and we made it out alive!
Shouldn’t that count for something? for everything?
Musings of a Wanderer 
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