Fragility, stuck in cement, she is a vase of flowers underneath the bling and the tats. She's a sprinkle of bad and a whole lotta sass. The stubble she wears, on the sides of her crown, removing her hair as it falls to the ground. She's a lotus of rocks, a petal of stone, in a garden of sticks she's a fountain of bones. The scars on her face are like veins from a stem that's been plucked from the field and tucked into cement.