Look at you.
Acne spilling out the edges
of the sea-level sling-back dress,
zipper-down, skimming the tops
of your thighs.
you forgot to cover-
from the front you're glazed,
concealer drying in the zits
typical of your age, but not the vision
you have for yourself.
But from the awkward angle-
through the rushing blood
of boys checking you out on the street,
your flushing cheeks-
See how your clay nose droops?
See the rough patch
on the side of your neck,
the cracked ceramic shoulder blade
where you'll get your next tattoo.
You wear that kiln-carnage dress,
clinging to the malformed curves
of an amateur's misshapen spiral pot,
and don't even know
how unfinished you look.
Huge falling out with best friend = blah and then poetry.