Avril

Granite faces—bones of the earth, Eyes empty, hollow as caves, Whispering a past that erased her name. Anger jagged, slicing through her chest, Like a blade cutting through thorns, She stays—rooted, unbroken. Skin stretched tight, a drumskin pulled thin, Red bandanna masking raven-black hair, Toes scraped by the road’s jagged kiss. 130 pounds of defiance, Eyes—dark as the creek’s hidden depths. Her past lodged like a splinter under skin, Silent, a growl trapped in worn leather. Her face, a map of fire’s scorch, Carved with a strength that won’t bow, She steps—heavy with unspoken weight. Badlands stretch, jagged as shattered glass, Earth’s crust torn open, raw. Stone bleeds, worn thin by time, Air smashes against it, Biting at the jagged teeth of the cliffs. Rocks split—Paleolithic stories spilled out, She is just another crack in the skin.