Time. They say that time heals all wounds. But years later, the scars remain. 

Physically, no, my arms and stomach no longer resemble a galaxy wallpaper that people use for a computer screen background. The precise lines dotted across my body are now faint, almost invisible to outsiders. I no longer wear those large crimson handprints as a choker. The battle scars on my body have faded, along with that rose-colored attitude. The words though, I'm still healing from them. Whoever said sticks and stones may break my bones, but words can never harm me, clearly have never encountered a man like him.

The words hissed at me, slithered from the serpent’s tongue, wormed their way through my defenses, under the pretenses of love. Burrowed in the holes made by my insecurities, hiding behind them to mask his agenda. That voice, a gun and every word shot at me is a bullet hole, easily tearing through my soft skin, killing off what was left of the optimist in me and leaving behind a half-empty girl. No matter how hard I try to block it out, he'll always have a residence in my brain. Wherever I go, he's there, always with me, his words stuck in my head like a sad song, playing a haunting melody.

Sometimes I wonder how I fell into this trap. When we first met, I was presented with a different image of him. With his perfectly unkempt, long chestnut hair that framed his handsome face, and neat stubble that surrounded his devilish smile. How was I supposed to know he hid fangs behind that grin? 

Sometimes I follow that image I have of him to the beginning, just to relive the start of the relationship. When it was good between us. When he actually cared. When it actually felt like he loved me. He wasn’t like the other guys I had met; he bewitched me and stole my heart. Seduced me with his smile, gained my trust with his innocent eyes and constantly reassured me with his confident aura. I felt safe, happy, and in love. Like I had met my person. It didn’t take long for it to turn. I used to compare our love to one of those old Hollywood films. The black and white ones with the perfectly scripted romance scenes, but the only similarities are that he left me devoid of color. 

I was his prized possession, his unruly stallion. That's what he called me. He used to tell me how I would be more loveable once broken. More refined, he said. Defeated, he meant. The best stallions are the toughest to break, he told me. And boy did he break me. If I were a marble slab, he would be the sculptor chiseling away at my stone. The more time I spent with him, the more pieces of me crumbled. Until I became a masterpiece in his image. His legacy. And now he’s gone. Leaving me an eroded mess with pieces missing while someone else is stumbling to find them.

I wish I could say that I was strong enough to leave. That after all the abuse I endured I finally gained the courage and learnt my self-worth. Though I tried and tried and tried, any spark of hope I had could never light up a fire with the hurricane winds coming from his tongue. In the end, Death was my savior. She did what no one else could; she got me away from him. Her tactics, some may say, a bit extreme. But every day I am thankful that she took mercy on me.

In the years that he has been gone, I built scabs around my heart. But every so often his words slink in, playing Chinese whispers in my brain, planting fictions. Warping my confidence before slowly making its way toward my heart and picking at the scab, like how he used to pick me apart. Leaving the wound open, bloody and defenseless like the girl he wanted me to be. 

It's an ongoing cycle. I move on, finally thinking that I am healing and then his voice slithers back, and ruins the work I’ve done. There's still an invisible thread that runs from his corpse to mine and unfortunately, you can't break what you cannot see.

No matter how hard I try, I remain that girl. 

Unfinished. Sculpted by the sculptor.