Finally rid of you.
You've clung to me for two whole years
like a parasite; fetid, vestigial.

This mild Friday was the surgeon's scalpel,
carving away the rotting flesh
till I could breathe again.

First came giddiness.
Light enough to float with the burden off my shoulders,
ready to sink into the depths of the dog days.

My bag practically emptied itself.
The papers and books interred in a box so I could
finally remember what my tabletop looked like.

Languor overcame me then, and I set about
drowning German recitals in episodes of QI,
burying Hamlet quotes with a controller as my shovel.

A thought crossed my mind as I
gutted the last of my sorting algorithms and Python code,
that I had been destroying part of myself.

Like the ***** that earned his fortune by
pleading for coins and pity from others. I had
forgotten what I was before.

I'm not worried, though.
Now I can write my Name, Centre Number and
Candidate Number on the next paper of my life.

Just remember block capitals. Write within the boxes.
Don't communicate with others. Keep your phone off.