"All good writing is swimming underwater and holding your breath."

that little whisper underneath your left elbow tells you to dive, dive into the water beneath you.

You jump, because you're that teenage girl who entices the Tai character in real life to do real stupid things. Like how you wear those shots that aren't even you sister's but her skinnier friends. That one who you'd expect was anorexic but it's just her genes. She doesn't eat. You jumped into that water and crack the right shoulder when you hit the surface, twelve feet above concrete. Diving isn't perfect, isn't picked over a ten point scale, isn't a factor when he's looking at you. He's nice, talks to you at your fancy parties you crash. "Who here is in eighth grade?" and you weren't. Cooled of your warmheadeded hatred, you can breathe because it's that home that you haven't been to recently, luggage hasn't caught up. That top reveals your insecurities once you're underneath, peach coloured skin flashing the drains; your breasts reveal themselves. They don't do that.

The first day of high school, we were scared of everything. This second first day, reaching your healed arm above your head in an accidental celebration, I've forgotten to be. The second time of your first is where things ought to rest. Expectations aren't astronomical and rewards are healthfully impure. I can't be that mermaid yet, things aren't the same when Dad took us. When he took us, and we went off and he played with the other kids. He, taught them to swim. But you made it to the rope and underneath it and you laughed when they laughed and celebrated with you. And it was a deal, if not a big one. We'd returned.

H&M swimsuit top, vintage leather Chanel bag. (Not pictured, black sling.)