The title does something before the poem even starts. It pins a hashtag to two opposite words and separates them with a slash, which could mean "either/or" or "both at once." Seven short lines later, the poem has answered: both, often within a single breath. The speaker still loves someone who is now with another person ("You're touching her"), and their feelings refuse to settle under one label. The central idea is that love and hate here are not rivals taking turns. They are set off by the same person, while the speaker's one real power is the refusal that opens the poem.
That first line, "I don't let me be thrown away," is grammatically unusual. A smoother version would be "I won't let myself be thrown away," but the awkward "let me" splits the speaker in two: one self that guards, another that could be discarded. "Thrown away" is the language of rubbish, of things that have stopped being useful. Whatever lies behind it, the speaker feels in danger of being treated as disposable. They answer in the flat present tense of a stance held daily, "don't" rather than "won't."
After that, the speaker nearly stops being an actor. The next four lines are built on "every time," and each names a trigger: a sight, a smile, a touch, a memory. Look at who performs them. "I see you" and "I remember" are the speaker's only verbs, and both are acts of perception rather than action. Everything else belongs to "you." Having announced a refusal, the speaker spends the rest of the poem reacting. The gap between that firm first line and the helpless remainder is where the tension lives.
The feelings arrive in the order pain, love, hate, love, so hate is held between two loves. Small changes in phrasing control the pace. "There's this pain" and "There's this hate" get full introductions, but the love in line three drops "There's" altogether: "This love every time you smile." It comes quickly, as if it needs no announcement. The hate is delayed by a line break: "There's this hate every time / You're touching her." The reader waits a beat, and then the capital "You're" and the blunt verb land hard. Notice how small the rival is: "her" is one syllable, unnamed, and appears only as the object of someone else's touch. The repeated "this" in "this pain," "this love," "this hate" has a conversational feel, like someone pointing at something lodged in the chest that they can't quite name.
The ending, "And this love, / Every time I remember us both," shifts the poem's direction. The short line with its opening "And" sounds like an admission the speaker can't help adding. The earlier love belonged to the present, a smile across a room, but this one belongs to memory, so the poem finishes by looking backward. "Us both" is also an odd choice, since "us" would have been enough. The extra word keeps two separate people visible even inside a pair, perhaps echoing the divided self of line one. One possible reading, which the poem only hints at, is that this remembered togetherness is what makes the refusal possible. If "us both" once existed, the speaker was never rubbish.
In form, the poem has no rhyme to speak of and no regular meter. The lines vary in length and read like speech, or a message typed fast and left unpolished. Without rhyme, nothing clicks shut at the end. The repeated "every time" and "this" do the work of a refrain, and then the poem simply stops, leaving love and hate unresolved.
That honesty is what makes it worth reading. It doesn't turn jealousy into noble sorrow or neat revenge, and it doesn't pick a side. It admits that the person who causes the pain also causes the love, and that memory can hurt and comfort at once. The hashtag suggests a modern habit of tagging feelings so others can find them, yet the poem shows how little a tag can hold. "Hate/Love" is a label, and the seven lines underneath it are the part the label can't carry.