1. I hate your lack of chin. Your bottom jaw, that lower line of teeth. Your face stops short at your mouth. We see your eyes, covered slightly by a fringe or not, prettied with mascara or not. We see your nose. Bent. Bulbous. Like a button. We see your lips, which could be thin and pink or could be thick and ready for a kiss. But it doesn’t matter. Your chin is sliding down your neck. Joining the neck. At one with the neck. A diagonal line from lip to apple. Constantly, you lurch. You guffaw.
2. I hate that you will not show me your legs. Do you know that I have seen them anyway?
3. I hate the way you make sounds as you move. You follow me. I say nothing. You follow me. I do nothing. Finally I snap. I swat and swoop. I am naked and no longer under the cover. I even switch on the light and wait, positioned like a frog, ready to get you with my foot, tongue, whatever will work. But you have disappeared. All that I can find are the red spots on my arms and the ends of my toes.
4. I hate your fingers moving across the piano, tinkering with the notes, jingling the bells. Slowly at first, then faster, faster. You threaten my sleep and confuse the seasons.
5. One day you will learn another instrument. I will hate that too.
6. I hate the way you eat the toilet paper. You eat it all up and then it is gone.
7. I hate that you drink cold liquids from a mug. This includes lemonade, water, iced tea, or Gatorade. It pleases me that I have not yet witnessed you enjoying wine or spirits, even beer, from a mug. In fact, it surprises me. Sometimes I think you want me to hate you.
8. I hate your cravings. I am waiting for the bus and thinking of things that once were melancholy and now are not. I am deliberate in my thoughts. It is a choice to be happy. Then I am interrupted, disrupted, by your cravings. You sit beside me, say hello and light up. I cough, and then once again. You do not move on. I hate that too.
10. I hate that you leave fingerprints on my mirror. Please don’t.
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