She wore the poorly constructed dress as a muted debate. The seams fought with gravity; the hem rejected symmetry; the zipper spoke of hurry. Though nothing matched, everything exposed bad intent. The material tugged where faith should breathe and pinched where grace demanded space. It was not unpleasant by coincidence. It was hurried, distracted, promised more than it acted.
A poor garment imparts honesty. Every shortcut in action, every skipped fitting in stillness is felt. It reveals the price of neglecting patience and the risks of saying yes too early. Still, donning it takes valor. You start to stand nonetheless, laugh at errors, and make better hand next time. Craft counts. Care matters. And sometimes failure is the tailor that sharpens taste later.