It happens in flashes,
like the hot pangs of sweat
when I wake up in my bed
doused in buckets of ice.

Like when the air hits your face
riding the highway.

My breath is lost in heaves,
I can't think - I can't think -
of anything except the littlest
and the morning cold
inching up the gaps of her pajamas.

Until the memory of his eyes assaulting
the places I'd not have them
stare at
claws at me.

I can't take it anymore.