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.