When I think back at the end of the day I wonder if you know of care about all the little words you turn to arrows and then shoot at me?
How I dodge them with a quiet grace that you have failed to see dripping with contempt and quiet rage.
Just when you think that the bow you shoot from is stronger than mine I remove those arrows and push them into the walls pinned with smiles and quiet retaliation.
To you I have no time to respond, wasting energy and resources on things that don’t matter except to prove what I have known all along.
Your pointed word arrows are really meant for yourself but you send them to me because I can handle it.
I use them to decorate my walls as if they were your mirror.
T.S. Deary
Pictures Assembled From Memory 