Rewrite

A rewrite of Julie Sheehan's "Hate Poem"...because right now I'm beginning to hate you.

I hate you most certainly. Most certainly I do.
Every inch surrounding me hates every inch surrounding you.
The tap of my fingers hates you.
The way I fake happiness hates you.
The sound made by the ripping of my hair were each strand pulled out individually by a person who was supposed to love me hates you.
Each atom screaming in its molecule hates you.

Watch it! Beware! I hate you.

The mashed up piece of banana that I'm trying to scrape from under my second finger nail, right hand, hates you.
The meaning of this stuffed animal hates you.
My mumbling in the background as you try to tell me all about the latest video game hates you.
The progeny of my cat hates you.
My ovary hates you. Also my friends.

The blooming flower in my backyard is both a blooming flower and an obvious symbol of how I hate you.

My voice filled with fake joy: hate.
My tears that slide down my face at night: hate.
My cheery "hello": hate.

You know how when I fall asleep, I capture you in my arms so you don't escape? Hate.
The blues of my dilated corneas imbue hate. My intelligence practices it.
My pajamas resting on my skin from evening to dawn hate you.
Suspended hate, a colloid.
Days after our recent fight, burning with the fiery heat of hate,
I separate you corpuscle by corpuscle, so that I might hate each speck exclusively and at ease.
My ventricles, insidious doppelgangers, empty with the sheer efficacy of my hate, which can never have too much of you,
Ardently, like two dreamers on a wingless plane.