A spoonful of sugar

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 Long fingers curl and uncurl in the sheets before coming together to hold her toes, the languid stretch in stark contrast to the tension in her mind. She rolls back up as he speaks again, the functional parts of her spine arcing like a cat, the rest of her following in suit. Pale, slender, trapped inside for far too long, she is a ghost of who she was before. But there is iron in her, too. Leaning back on the couch again, Amalia lets her head fall back, her eyes returning to the fragmented ceiling. "Oh, you know," she replies mock-lightly, shoulders rising and falling in a shrug. "Hurting people. Losing people. Failing.... everyone. My family, my friends. The gods. Not being good enough." The answers are easy enough, because these are the fears none can fault her for. Biting her lip, she falls silent again, letting her thoughts speak the harder truths. I'm also afraid because... because sometimes I do feel I'm doing well, but then everything goes wrong anyway. I've worked hard and done my best and it doesn't matter. I still hurt people and I still get hurt and I still fuck things up. So what's the point of trying anymore? 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