Unforecasted Rain

Rain and storms, natural parts of the cycle;
why do I let them sometimes level
me? Perhaps it’s the blindsiding.
What if I had a service to alert
when my past in shallow puddles lurks?
Tentacles too quickly encircle
around my ankle–
down the rabbit hole
again. Yet even then,
I know from experience,
the falls are physically
harmless. What’s another
puncture in a wound
unable to be seen?
Though no bodily pain
I’ve ever known
makes me so heavily
internally bleed
out. Hemorrhaging soul.
Still, it is inevitable:
the weather changes
back again every time.
What’s left behind?
A piece I bury, not of me,
but a part of the repetition
of unhealthy;
one less tentacle grows back,
unable to regenerate.
One by one, I slay them,
and the only way
to pass through the portal
is through those puddles,
so I brace
for the rain.