There are many things that he hates.
He hates Sheppard and Beckett for doing this to him, for taking his strength and his pride and his life and leaving him like this. He hates Ronon for not killing him, because he now has nothing, less than nothing, and it would be better if he were dead. He hates Teyla for pretending to be his friend, for tricking him into trusting her, for connecting to that disgustingly human side of him and making him feel.
Mostly, though, Michael hates himself.
He thinks about it as he studies his reflection in the broken mirror before him. He remembers everything, now, all that had been repressed while the Lanteans had held him in their city, kept him drugged so he would forget. He had been strong and proud, a warrior in the service of his mighty Queen. His hair had reached to his waist, and his eyes had glowed in their ferocity. He had been feared, respected, accepted.
His human self had been so different, so weak, so disgusting, but he finds himself even wishing for that form now. He was soft and slow, needing regular meals and companionship, and surely he would have been killed instantly if he had been in some sort of fight with a worthy adversary. He had, however, fit into that world as a human, however much he might detest the thought now.
Now, he glares at his own reflection, watching his features distort and grimace back at him. Now, he is something else entirely. He is no longer human, not as he had been, but he has not returned to his Wraith form, either. He finds himself stuck between, somehow, with both sides thinking him the enemy and neither wanting him in their presence.
He hates himself now. Hates that he is too human to go home, that his Queen looks at him with revulsion, that his hivemates snarl at him and look as if they would rather kill him than let him live. He hates that he owes his life to another, to the warrior who had shadowed him throughout the ship, who several times stopped drones from attacking him. He hates that the only reason that he is still alive is because the Queen did not want him dead; surely the warrior assigned to guard him would have let him die were it not for her explicit instructions to keep him safe.
He hates, also, that he is too Wraith to return to the Lanteans. He does not want to go back there, not really, certainly does not want to be subjected to their testing and their drugs and their lifelong distrust of him, even if he turned himself over willingly. He hates that he has no option, thanks to them.
Mostly, still, Michael hates himself for not being able to move on, for not being able to carve his own space in the vast and bloody universe. He hates that he cannot forget what he does not want to remember, and he hates that he is weak enough to admit that, even if it is only to himself.
Hate can be a powerful ally, though, especially when it is your only one, so Michael gathers all his hate to him and sets about planning.
He is alone, yes, but he will not be so for long. And those who will soon be with him will not hate him at all.