From my 9th grade self
Ninth grade was another new start, but
only slightly.
The torment began within two weeks of
starting.
I've had many bullies before this, but
this one was different.
He was taller and more robust than I was.
Every morning I would pass by him, avoiding
the gaze of his piercing eyes.
He'd walk up to me punched me in the arm
and yelled in my face calling me a "faggot."
It wasn't in my nature to trust others with
what was going on.
So I let him run right over me.
Months and months passed, and it
kept happening.
Avoiding him only made it worse when he did see me.
Never told a soul about the bruises on
my arms from the punching.
One day in art class, I finally broke down,
and a friend asked: "what is wrong?"
I wanted to lie, but I told her I was being
bullied.
She was astonished, and I cried on her
shoulder.
Things never got better, and I didn't feel
I could be myself if it meant being called names.
I had to hide... once again, I would live
to fight this never-ending war.
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