Lying there, I hoped it would give me a purity I could not give myself. I thought a lot about nothing at the same time, wondering if the plague of freckles on my face made me less attractive or if cherry nail polish would look better than navy. I read a little, then plopped the novel onto the cold tile. Closing my eyes, rolling a heavy head to rest on the blush pink wall of the ceramic tub, the warm soapy water twirling above my naked body like a peaceful murmur in a labyrinth of disgust I feel for my skin. I felt myself slip and the water rise from my collarbone and through my hair, picking up the loose strands and making them float. I imagined I was in the ocean so far out to sea that I was closer to the moon than another person. Looking up, light shot through the water's surface like needles, illuminating chosen slivers of blue. My lungs were full of precious air that I would no longer recognise the taste of. Up, towards the light, it was too far for me to swim to. Down, it is darker, endless, unknown. I stay, like a puppet tied to a clear string in the undecided middle, the in-between; too deep to save yourself, not deep enough to be gone.