you're ripped at every edge, Garbage

[Ryatah]

“What have I become, my sweetest friend?
Everyone I know goes away in the end."

She is no stranger to the cycle of life and death. Most are born and then they die, and perhaps if they are lucky there is some life that happens in between the two events. And then there are the other ones, like her, that for some reason death does not keep. There had not been an afterlife for her. There is not much to remember, although she thinks that she was cold. Sometimes she dreams of an unforgiving sea, being trapped at the bottom of the ocean floor, a blurry light above her that she thinks is the surface. But she cannot be sure if these were dreams or memories. She remembers when she finally escaped, when the seaweed shackles seemed to release their hold and she first gasped in the cold air in the midst of the churning waves. Beqanna was in the throes of the Catastrophe, and when the sea spit her ashore, with seaweed tangled in her mane and starfish clinging to her skin, she does not remember being dead.
 
Not one to dwell on the past, it only crosses her mind every now and then. Her ability to seemingly forget and push aside her past was the only way she kept herself going. Occasionally a memory linked to a scar across her heart would startle itself awake, usually in her dreams, when she had no control over it. It was then that she would remember that nothing would ever be as it was. She was alone. Anyone that she had ever loved – even those that she had been less than fond of – seemed to be gone, forever. She doesn’t think the sea will be returning them anytime soon.
 
She could be an apparition, pale and wavering, with empty sockets that sat like depthless caves on either side of what was once a beautiful face. Even with the immortality, she was worn. In some ways she was still lovely, in the same way an old wedding dress might still be viewed as pretty even though it’s time of splendor had long since passed. She is used, she is broken, she is alone. And she doesn’t see the black stallion that is ahead of her on the path that she too walks, but she smells him and she feels him. He is a warm orange and red glow in the middle of this stark winter, and her ghost-white lips pull into a smile. ”Where are you going?” She doesn’t know him, but as was her way, she feels like she does.

RYATAH

you could have it all, my empire of dirt

Hi, I couldn't help myself. I'm pretty rusty so it's a little rambly.