who tells your story; lirren, any

[graveling]

She is a thing near grown, now.
A bit of the gangliness of youth still haunts the edges of her, hollows not yet filled. The dead flesh she’d been born with is mostly gone now; there is only a hint of gray and decay at the seams of her, like she is almost healed.
Save for her leg – what remains across her foreleg is a gash where the skin never stiched together, where bone gleams bright. It doesn’t hurt, rather, it reminds her – reminds her that she was
(was)
dead, that she is a reversal – a thing come from the afterlife to here.

That aside, she looks like her mother – a rich gold like sultan’s coins, a mane pale and cream-colored like cornsilk. Yet there is no one left to make this comparison – the ones who knew Craft and her meager legacy are long dead.
She is a thing near grown, but she is also old, a spirit weighed in history placed into this small gold vessel, to carry out something that nature had once denied her.

Dead girl walking, but she doesn’t look it on this winter’s day, instead she looks near vibrant against the dead starkness of the earth. Instead she looks alive, like she is meant to be here, like she has always meant to be here.

.

graveling

the worms crawl in, the worms crawl out

(so since she's like grown now figured i should 'restart' her)