Swim.
Swim.
Swim.
Faster.

"Swim, kick, stroke,
or you won't get anywhere
in this ******* world, kid!"

At my old high school
where you were a ***** if you lost,
I was on nails everyday.
My muscles ached
in ways I didn't think possible.
My hands trembled in class,
and teachers looked at me with sorrow
in their minds, behind their eyes.

"You are nothing if you're not a winner
and here we only train champions.
Not musicians, not poets, or some
sappy, sad-as-**** writers.
You compete, you win, or you're out.
And you've been winning, so you're gonna train."

Word for word.
The veins in my head bulge.

"Faster! Faster!"

Even underwater the commands climb
in my ears,
slapping their way in with machete's
made minus mercy.
My coach, that *******
wants glory for this school, for this team
for himself,
wants it to come from me.

All I want is shadow.
To stand behind the curtains.

"You're gonna let everybody down!
FASTER! FASTER! FASTER!
MOVE YOUR ******* ARMS!
FASTER, *******!"

The bottom of the pool didn't
always look so menacing.
In fact, it almost looked inviting.