Overheads

Excuse me for a second,
I just have to stick my head
between my legs to stop the
racing thoughts and the heavy
breathing, to quell the vivid
flashbacks. Back to nights
I cried myself to sleep over
a man who hated to pray,
though he forced the rosary
into my hand, asking me to
decipher the will of God
with my own cold fingers--folded.

It's not that you resemble him,
because you couldn't look more
different. Your voice sounds
a hundred years old, and your
heart could love all my broken
pieces, and your hands reach
parts of me I only let God
touch, but you must see,
I'm a wounded soul that doesn't
forget and I beg you for
patience, because dealing with
me could prove more challenging
than you thought.

Just know,
I'm more than willing,
to rewrite our nightmares
together.