Communion

Where can I find some space, some peace, some silence free from else to perform this ritual – pooping – something that I want to do on my own, without the knowledge of others, in secret. I need to find me my own chosen avenue for the outing of my bowels. I hush my tummy for a second, and brush past this person and that as I feel the edge my bones tingle with anticipation – undertake kegel exercise with my but cheeks. Tunnel vision leads me to this room – clean, white, ordinary but I settle down and calm my nerves and release. I am alone, seated on the cold plastic seat. Relieved. Yet, how many before me have shared the same relief. How many skins have touched skin with me where I am? We have had a communion, a collection of cells that jump from our skins in search for new terrain, new air, new bodies – black, brown, white, pink. Whatever we took in somehow becomes what we take out and flush flush flush down the stream. Can I smile at it, can I laugh at it? Instead I am scared, to be found here by another, so I run away from it – feigning innocence of the act. Pas moi!. Mist have been someone else that did that there. At home, we have a subculture. My sister or brother would make me know I pooped and it smelt bad, and she knows it. Because we ate breakfast, and lunch and dinner there was no question whenever either of us pooped the remnant smell would more often than not be like the rest of us. But here, in the metropolis, I feel an aversion to take claim to how my insides processed the pasta and lasagna. I’d flash one, two, three times to keep stimy the smell. Again, it’s a secret act, it’s still my secret, and the next person’s secret who will partake of the bodily communion. Flush. Forget. Go. Read relativity and Fitzgerald. Till next time. Maybe tomorrow.

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