I hate how your pants are always too short.
I hate your dorky loafers,
and I hate your pretentious taste in poetry
your joking fondness for misogyny
I hate the way you smile at me with all-knowing eyes
the ones that have no problem staring through the lies
I hate it when you’re honest too
as if it’s making up for the rest
I hate the times I confide in you
and get back only jest
I hate the way you read my mind with one simple chilling glare
I try so obviously to make you know, and I hate that you don’t care
I hate that you don’t leave, and I hate that you don’t stay
…though if you remained any longer would we be fighting?
I couldn’t say
I hate that you don’t make time for me
even though we’re us
I’ll take our parting argument and squeeze the hatred into dust
I always choose incorrectly
But to tell the truth, don’t we all?
You’re antisocial and expire, like a cigarette last hour lit
Being with you is like breathing
If I could survive without it