I see you once I've got you down to size:
a two-day-stubble squatter; jailbait eyes;
the bottle-headed trophy mom; the mentor
always angling his face down from the center
of his universe to shine a light on yours.
The fated anorexic, whose allures
shimmer in the mirror for her eyes
only, denying what her denial denies.
Once you become a cliche I can hate you—
or, treat me tenderly and let me date you.
But that only retards the writing-off
that comes with boredom, amour propre, or (cough)
irreconcilable differences, i.e.,
those things about you that are least like me,
yet just slightly different, my foible's h*mophone,
so in hating yours I really hate my own.
This keeps the focus where it wants to be—
On whom, you ask? Invariably on.... See?
I didn't even have to say, did I?
I love you so much. No need to reply.