Look at you. Acne spilling out the edges of the sea-level sling-back dress, zipper-down, skimming the tops of your thighs. Skin slivers 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.