Her soft black boots glide slowly to the bathroom, clutching at carpet a moment too long and she stumbles, steadying herself against stained walls. Vision blurred. Door opens, boots on glacial tile, scary girl face in mirror, she turns on the water.
Under the faucet go her trembling hands, hot water rushes out to spill over tightly braided fingers and knuckles, the deluge turning to streams and rivulets and drips, rounding the crest of her fist and meeting again at the bottom, a soothing smoothing blanket of warmth and continuity; this has all happened before and will all happen again. Water goes everywhere and is everything and you are everything and this will always be, water will rush and you will sink or you will float or you will be an island. For now, it is enough.
The girl envisions herself small enough to fit in the sink, the hot water on her head, gathering in the sink to fill and warm. Nostrils filled, water in throat, in lungs, filling the space between her vertebrae, reaching her tailbone, slithering down the long passages in her legs where her bones used to be. Warm, at long last.