Short Story: Discussion

Your fingernails are too long, I say. Your hair needs cutting, I say. Your jeans are ingrained with dirt, and are disintegrating at the knee, I say. And your face is, your face is, your face just is... aaagh, I say, when what I really want to say is that:

You disgust me. I look at you, and you disgust me.
Your apathy disgusts me.
Your apathy and lethargy, antipathy and atheism, and apologetic shrugs of non-commitment and indecision and passivity disgust me.

We could discuss you. We could discuss all the stupid things that after four tough years have been picking at our filaments and are pulling us down and holding us under. We could discuss all the ways in which you could do this better, or I could say that better, or we could cook or store or sleep or snore or exercise or organise or prioritise or fuck better.

          
We could discuss the things you do that disgust me. Things that colour me apoplectic. That twist my mouth shut, jaws locked with contempt. That break pieces from my hibernating heart. We have to discuss you leaving, us splitting, it all ending, before I’ve no heart left to wake.