August 19, 2009
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And then I was sinking. Drowning, reeling. I'd only tried to wash my hair; but I got tangled in the tresses, fingers, bubbles, water. I was stuck. Trapped.

Earlier I peered over the porcelain edge. The pearl coastline mesmerized me almost as much as the shimmering reflection that billowed beneath me. So that's what I am. I lift one small leg as high as I can. My itty bitty toes reach the warm liquid.

I step inside and think. What do I do now? What does mommy do? In a trance I reach for the shampoo, the bottle as long as my arm and squeeze - just like mommy does. I reach to the top of my head and swipe and slide and move my hands all over and in and under and around my auburn hair.

It needs to come out. I'm finished. I'm clean.

And then I'm drowning. The porcelain is no longer beautiful. It's deep and scary and endless and frightening and mean and angry. I flail. I struggle.

I sit up.

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