She is a river with emotional fluidity.
An estuary, connecting the uncertain tides of life to the stream of consciousness.
They call her inconstant. Faithless and lost. Sometimes manipulative. Often hollow.
Day one, the tide is low and her feet dance upon the shores, head held above the sky. She is high, like the lost balloon at a fair. Euphoric, independent. A reunion between her and herself.
Yet, day thirty-one, the tide is swelling and her round face is sinking beneath the flat edges of the salty ocean. She is low, like the anchor of a ship. Despondent, dependent. A parting between her and herself.
The human body is said to be buoyant. Its density is less than water, salty or fresh, which makes the vessel float. Yet she is a scientific anomaly. Never one nor the other, never floating nor sinking, Schrodinger’s Cat as a twenty-three year old woman.
On day fifty-seven, she is emptied, drought in an area thirsting. She dates a man, with the hopes that he will fertilize her shores and bring vibrancy back onto her lands. She then dates a woman, with the hopes that she will carry buckets of water upon her shoulders and methodically renew the deadened stream.
She dates herself, her hand, her razor.
And once again, she flows.