He used to pierce holes in my heart agonizingly slowly, my chest cavity closing in tightly each time, to hug the deep wound for fear it would unfurl. My hands loyal servants to my psyche, alternating from catching the pool of tears streaming from my face, to embracing my curled up feeble legs sitting against the corner of my bed. Each time was harder than the last, until my heart ripped in half when the collection of holes merged into one.

Until one day I lifted my defeated body carefully from the floor like a puppet master, carefully moving one limb at a time. Then, I took my heart in my hand and stitched it back up, and filled the holes, one by one, until it was back to one piece, each scar a reminder that broken things can be put back together with care and patience. The refurbished me could now love again.