Survival of the Fittest

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?

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