The Fluid One

She moves like the tide—never just one thing, never fixed, always shifting.
Some days, she wakes like the wild earth, untouched, raw, effortless.
No makeup, no performance, just the hum of her own quiet energy.
Other days, she adorns herself like a canvas—
draped in silk, lips painted bold, eyes sharp with knowing.
Not for admiration, not for applause—but because beauty is an art, and she is the artist.

She speaks when the air is charged with something real—
when minds spark, when souls unfold.
She is selective, but never unkind.
She listens, but never shrinks.
She meets the world with openness, but never gives away her fire for free.

She has learned the language of adaptation, of shape-shifting,
but beneath it all, she is something untamed—
not performing, just existing, in whatever form the day allows.
One moment, still as the forest.The next, lightning splitting the sky.

She belongs to no single version of herself.
She is freedom wrapped in skin.
She is both presence and quiet retreat.
She is the one who chooses—who she is, how she shows up,
not for them, but for herself.