When his mother was dying we each said goodbye
I was moved to tears.
The funeral came and though I tried to remain stoic, English, I cried.
Then he died, pulled under by umbilical cords, tied by my bloodied hands.
When the service came I cried then too.
My parents told me not to cry, as though it was an admission of guilt.
Still I wept through the service, as though their sternly worded advice meant nothing.
I sat and felt several tides of sorrow wash over me.
I tried to clench my bowels when it came. Through the first I stayed strong, forcing the emotion down.
The second wave made my eyes water; and whilst a stray tear dribbled off my chin I remained strong, forcing the emotion back down my swollen throat to maintain composure.
The third wave came, and though I kicked and struggled to keep my head above the guilty waves I sank below
My weeping, scabbed face betrayed the guilt of a murderer and finally I let go
Allowing the full horror of what had transpired to engulf me.
I drowned, my face covered by my dirty jacket.
The priest offered for us to share a final moment with the victim before he was burnt to ashes
And I, like the guilty party sat stock still, paralysed by the truth; that I, at that young age, had killed
And whilst I swore that I would never kill again
I collapsed adrift on a bitter sea of tears,
Howling at the injustice that I had wrought.
Later, when composure had been regained I felt a stirring in those clenched bowels.
I sat down on the porcelain throne and proceeded to shit out a large and meaty turd
I strained, my eyes watered, and my anus tipped to the edge of prolapse.
Comforted, I wiped and then felt nothing.
With humility I knew, that I was not noble Simon Daedalus but lowly Leopold Bloom.
The same avenues corporeal brinkmanship that led me to that sad place
Had led me to safety.
It was at first a sad realisation
But I’m happier now.