On Broken Wings

She's imperfect, but she tries She is good, but she lies She is hard on herself She is broken and won't ask for help Amalia laughs richly at his apology, her clear alto ringing out through the peaceful Glade. "If you apologized every time I was worried you would quickly run out of breath." It is a wry statement, humor underlined by a current of resigned truth. The baker cannot pinpoint a period of time when she was not worried about something or other: the difference is that now her worries are real, tied to faces and places and people instead of existing solely in her head. It's exhausting, but in a way it's also a little bit nice. She does not say anything else, content to sit in silence. Part of her is still concerned, running the things he's said through her mind, trying to make a plausible narrative, to find a thing to fix. Another part is amused, bemused, that he should be the one to break, all her many insecurities said at last aloud. In that way (and so many others) he is stronger than her, wiser, for he knows when to trust and release while Amalia holds the world in, too afraid to cry. She is happy to be his shelter, though. She is happy to have him as hers. a m a l i a She is messy, but she's kind She is lonely most of the time She is all of this mixed up and baked in a beautiful pie She is gone, but she used to be mine