It all makes sense now — the foolish way I repeatedly gathered my broken heart and laid them at your feet like wild roses, the cold feel of beer bottles, the anguish at the heartbreak trying to escape my chest, the desperate need for your cruel hands, the way new Decembers kept on hurting — it all makes sense now, the miserably intense way that I loved you, and how it was never enough.

I needed to be hurt like that. I needed to live your cruelty in order to love myself more.