The light shown through the glass was becoming distorted as it shattered onto the ground, splinters of the mirror flew across the floor onto my bare feet and rug. Why do I look like this? Such beautiful blue eyes that sparkled like the stars and showed blue like the ocean on a summer day. But mine were a deep brown unlike hers, as deep as a chasm. A beautiful pointed nose that swooped down into a perfect curve, but mine was rocky like the slopes on the himalayas. Full pouty lips that were as pink as fresh spring roses, But mine were as thin as paper and had the color of mauve pink. Why did I look this way? Why did I look this way, and not the way of beautifully toned and tight skinned models in the magazines? Why did I have to have the rockiest of noses and the palest of lips while hers were smooth and perfect? Why is she the pinnacle of perfection and I am just an altered version of it, why am I the second choice for every potential love interest and that first I must accept myself before anyone else can, but how can I do that when there is her. Her. With the ocean eyes and the smooth nose and pink lips like roses on a spring day. Her. With the freckled cheeks and the pouty lips and the hair that I swear looked like shimmering gold. While I have the olive skin and black curly knots of hair that I must call my own? How can I feel secure and love myself when there is her? She is everything I am not, except for one thing. She may be the sun and I the rain, she may be perfect and I the complete definition of imperfect. But I am the most beautiful of rain and I am what the flowers and plants need. I am poetry on a saturday morning, I am dark coffee, I am thunderstorms and rain clouds. And maybe that could be enough one day. Because how can the rain compare to the sun? How can I compare to her?