The changing room floor slick

The changing room floor, slick

with a thin film, a grime-sheen,

the smell of chlorine hits me quick,

not clean, not childhood, not pristine.

It’s sharp and stale, like damp concrete,

and old plastic that’s seen too much wear.

It grabs my throat, not sweet,

just heavy, thick, in the air.

Not the summer bright, not the splash

of blue water, the sun on my face.

More like a cold, raw lash

of memory, stuck in this place.

My eyes would sting then, even shut,

the water shock, a sudden, cold dive.

Now it's just this stale, chemical gut

feeling, barely keeping me alive.

The fun, the games, a blurry scene,

replaced by this, the concrete chill.

What did that bright, blue water mean

that I remember now so ill?

The floor is wet, my shoes they stick,

a phantom chill runs through my bones.

The scent, a memory, cold and thick,

a quiet echo through these stones.