I hate December nights that go on and on and keep whispering it’s almost dawn. I hate watching people line up for coffee at Geraldine’s, leaning and fidgeting. I hate when I see you following your phone down the moonlit sidewalk. I hate manhole covers and police barricades. I hate noon. I hate post-its and lemons and those turtles that Armando keeps in his bedroom. I hate the time we spend sniffling and stomping at bus stops. I hate the way the cold sweeps in behind us when we enter your apartment. I hate my teens and the malls I spent them in. I hate time, the way it slows then speeds when you want it to speed then slow. I hate people. I hate people and I hate being alone. I hate how my fidgeting feet unplug the computer when I’m in the middle of writing you. I hate the bass-bumping cars and the cars that have nothing but silence inside them. I hate the science of your arrivals, the calculations that appear magically on your wrist and how they take you from me. I hate frozen February and muddy March. I hate holidays that pull me from my desk like a child away from a puddle. I hate the smokers on the fire escape at a Brooklyn party. I hate Brooklyn even when it rains. I hate Weekend at Bernie’s because it is not a remake of Hamlet. I hate Polonius, his officiousness and tragic pragmatism. I hate that we continue to live after failing at love. I hate that I’ll never run out of things to hate. I hate the way your face turns into a Picasso painting when you’re angry. I hate spring. I hate the cherry blossoms that begin falling just when you get used to them. I hate when you open the curtains and let the sunlight begin ruining the rug. I hate when you tell me stanza is Italian for room. I hate the way coffee jolts us with hope every morning. I hate hearing movie music from the neighbors’ apartment. I hate that I have to pretend to like my friends’ poems. I hate when I don’t show up at the party and no one texts me to see where I am. I hate weekends. I hate swans. I hate Central Park, mostly because everyone loves it. I hate micro-brews and earnest conversations. I hate when my imitators say imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. I hate the sunrise because it’s like a wink from someone you don’t know and will never see again. I hate croissants. I hate the beach and I hate leaving the beach too soon. I hate stasis and I hate change. I hate the moon in all its incredulous phases. I hate poems that begin or end with a dream. I hate dreams. I hate people who tell me to accept the things I cannot change. I hate the word cannot. I hate when you say goodbye to someone and then they come back for their sweater. I hate stepping on the only Lego in the room. I hate finding something that isn’t mine and then bumping into the real owner. I hate how the past won’t stay past. I hate the end of the Zoom call when everyone must stare at the screen until someone ends meeting for all. I hate May and the chatter of birds who don’t belong here. I hate when the bar plays Frank Sinatra to let you know it’s too late to do whatever you’d thought you might do. I hate all poets, but especially the gloating poets and the condescending poets and the poets who shake your hand quickly on their way to have drinks with the important poets. I hate when someone says “chin up.” I especially hate movies where a sprightly Brit mock punches someone’s shoulder and says “chin up.” I hate chins and noses and ears and especially foreheads. I hate having to pretend to change the radio station when the homeless man walks his hand-lettered sign past my window at the stoplight. I hate how we all go about our days pretending we’re not going to die. I hate happy endings. I hate people who try to guess my sign. I hate when people you just met tell you something they have never told anyone else ever. I hate summer and knowing people will be nearly naked in public. I hate red shoes and black shoes and the whole institution of shoes. I hate knowing I am mostly empty space. I hate knowing you are mostly empty space, too, though it looks better on you. I hate when a poet says what they mean, even if what they mean is what they hate. I hate Beyonce. There. I’ve said it. I hate ponies and crickets and tadpoles and kittens. I hate myself for loving you. I hate Joan Jett. I hate catapults and pomades and Flexeril and gymkhanas. I hate slippers and modalities and iterations. I hate carports and po’ boys. I hate clear days and days like this when the fog moves in and obscures everything I hate.