she is more beautiful than I am. This is a given. She will always be more beautiful no matter how much weight I lose or if I cut my hair right or if I wear make up like the other girls. I do not find her beautiful but you find her so and I will not compete. There is nothing I can do. I am resigned. There is no way that you will find me beautiful. There is no way that I will find myself beautiful.
I can do stuff. I can write. I can see you, really see you. That is something I have that she will not have, the ability to see past the haze of love and desire to the fragile core of you desperate to be liked.
I like you.
This is what I have. The ability to like you without the idea of love. She is more beautiful but I can sit in my ugliness and look out at the world and see it so clearly that it cuts into my eyes. And I will still like you when love has shriveled and fallen, a bud that abandoned a tree before the flowering. I will like you for your sometimes flawed, always insecure, and often dishonest self. I will like you without fairytales and despite the lies. I will like you forever and with love. Not her kind of abundant love, but a love that is unconditional and filled with clear-sight. I will love you forever.