My love for you is a meager thing, embracing as it does such a tiny fragment of what you are. For any decent girl, it would be far too little; she would wither in the wasteland of my pejorative affections, a place where only the rankest weeds of your sort may thrive.
My love for you is a meager thing, but better still than any love you’ve ever known, because I save it for the hateful things that haunt your eyes.