I'm run over.
Tire tracks across my history.
Hard, angry, or weak souls,
damaged by life or lack of life,
in turn attempted to harm me.
The result should be
a bitter, hopeless woman.
But I choose my response.
I display residue of my choosing.
What you see is the me I choose to be.
I'm not a dart board.
I'm not the dart.
I'm the air the dart flies through.
I choose which way to bend,
after the dart is long gone.
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