I hate you too.
Everything about me hates everything about you too.
The flip of my middle finger hates you.
The way I type on this keyboard hates you.
The movement of the sheet as I roll over in bed hates you too.
Every breath in and out of my lungs hates you too.
Look out! You can have your cheap golf ball back. I hate you too!
The dingy shoe laces from my shoes that I tie every day on my feet, hates you.
Give my key-chain back, I hate you too.
The release of my favorite chair I sit in to watch football on television hates you.
The trees I mow grass around in the yard hates you.
Not only does my aorta hate you my mitral valve, and my tricuspid valve hates you too.
The garage door I repaired numerous times for you,
needing fixed again,
is an evident sign how much I hate you back.
The beer sweat leaving the faded ring on the table hates you too.
My silence when you invite your friends over for dinner: hates back.
My pleasant “good night”: hates back.
You know how I roll over in bed to avoid you nuzzling under my arm? Hates back.
The callouses on my hands articulate hate back
Layers of hate, a marvelous pizza on football night
I think about all your fake blond hairs so that I can calculate how many times I should multiply my hate.
My heart, beats heavy, hurts with my hate because it would stop beating without the thought of you and the hate.
Fatigued like some old man dying on a set of stairs.
Remember I hate you too.