The Art of Falling Apart

As Rarity stepped into her workroom, her sewing machine stashed in the corner and half-finished designs chucked into an overflowing trashcan, she felt her already hollow heart somehow crumble further, still in denial over one simple fact: 

Rarity used to be a designer. A good one and a bad one all at once.

But… she wasn’t a designer anymore. 

And if she wasn’t a designer, then she had no use to anypony. 

And if she had no use to anypony, she was worthless.

And if she was worthless, she was better off dead.