random. story-ish. 90's. (poem)

So they told her there was beauty in the breakdown,

she figured why not, what've I got to lose?

It'd been too long since someone called her beautiful,

much less than when someone had called her at all.

The breakdown would be her undoing,

sending her down a spiral of guilty glory,

so sublime that how else could she come out,

other than looking her best?

Instead, it took her years to recover,

slowly pulling herself out of the mire,

Wondering where she'd turned wrong,

realizing the only beauty was a hand pulling you out,

a hand she'd been sorely lacking.

Days flew by, as she cried,

until finally, at her last straw, she saw a hand.

Dignity overcame her as she stood,

brushed off her knees and struggled to her feet.

Maybe the saying was true, but she prayed,

she would never have to go through,

the breakdown again.