The speaker is in pain, and the poem keeps saying so. It begins with small, physical aches: teeth, legs, neck, back. Then it widens to the body as a whole, then to the mind, the heart, and the soul. By the middle, the hurt has spread past the speaker's own self to the outside world: sights, sounds, thoughts, feelings. Nothing is left untouched.
What stands out is how plain it all is. There are no elaborate images or comparisons, just short lines and one refrain, "everything hurts," returning again and again. The repetition feels like someone who can't find any other words, or who has stopped trying. By the end the phrase appears three times in a row, as if the speaker is worn down and can only say it over and over.
The mood is exhausted and bleak. The epigraph, "i hope you're fond of misery," adds a bitter, almost sarcastic edge, as though the speaker is warning the reader what they're in for.