When she fell, she fell apart.
Cracked her bones on the pavement she once decorated as a child with sidewalk chalk.
When she crashed, her clothes disintegrated and blew away with the wind that took all of her fair-weather friends

When she looked around, her skin was splattered with ink forming the voices of a thousand words,
Echoes she heard even in her sleep:
"Whatever you say, it is not right."
"Whatever you do, it is not enough."
"Your kindness is fake."
"Your pain is manipulative."

When she lay there on the ground, she dreamed of time machines and revenge, and a love that was really something,
Not just the idea of something

When she finally rose, she rose slowly
Avoiding old haunts and sidestepping shiny pennies
Wary of phone calls and promises,
Charmers, dandies, and get-love-quick schemes

When she stood, she stood with a desolate knowingness
Waded out into the dark, wild ocean up to her neck
Bathed in her brokenness
Said a prayer of gratitude for each chink in the armor she never knew she needed
Standing broad-shouldered next to her was a love that was really something,
Not just the idea of something.

When she turned to go home,
She heard the echoes of new words
"May your heart remain breakable
But never by the same hand twice"
And even louder:
"without your past, you could have never arrived--
so wondrously and brutally,
By design or some violent, exquisite happenstance
... here."

And in the death of her reputation,
She felt truly alive.

Poem by: Taylor Swift