There are days in which my forearm remembers stories that I made up,
That haunt me and forebode potential illusions.
I remember days in which there were many of these days within a day.
Reliving the past, stuck in the present, denying the future.
Day after day turned into moment after moment,
Creating a lifetime of worry in nonly one unconscious second.
What ifs rained on my skin and anxiety pelted down on me
Like torrential hale.
Then there were days that I chose to carry an umbrella.
And on those days,
I did not deny the rain,
But simply let it fall
And felt the hale ricochet
Off of the vinyl top of my clear shield
These are the days that prevail
Over all others
Even the days when it does not rain.