I was doing something you didn't want me to and you were telling me that. Thinking I was being clever I said, I remember when I used to care what you think. But it didn't hurt you enough. Actually, it just seemed sort of funny.
The hangovers caught up with me but not as much as you shifted the past into arbitrariness. That was the worst. I imagined the cuts coming down on me, across my arms. Trying to go the other way, this time from funny to cruelty, I told myself things will get better. There's always tomorrow. The world is your oyster.
I can't say something that will hurt you enough. Cuts seem more appealing than obesity because cuts are judged more harshly. Stretch marks don't go away either but a cut can be on an otherwise attractive frame. It means you are hurting. Whereas a fat belly just means you eat too much and are fat. There's the pains of finding that my clothes are getting too small. I can't buy new ones. But, with cuts I can do so much worse.
Both help in one way though, they both affirm how stupid the world is out of the judgment they bring. You're fat, you cut. Or you combine. Let's be positive. Finally, I stopped doing something you didn't want me to do. You kept doing what I didn't want you to do. I kept doing what I didn't want to do too.