The Truth About My Personal Hell

My hell was sixth grade.
My demons the eighth grade girls. 
The vile words hatefully thrown my direction the bars and stones that kept me in my prison. That kept me in my hell. 
I had done nothing to them to cause them to hate me,
They were bullying me and others simply "for the hell of it."
​My hell, which at first had only stayed in the words exchanged at school, 
Began to get stuck in my head and follow me home. 
Hell poured its words out of my mouth and attacked the people I cared for. 
Hell stuck out its talons and stopped me from doing the things I loved. 
Hell buried deeply rooted thoughts in my head that still haven't been completely erased. Hell laughed and spat its venom in my face. 
Hell left claw marks on my flesh.
​On my journey through this faux hell, the awful truth sunk in: 
This was not my final Hell. 
These thoughtless, insecure and insensitive people who put me through the worst time of my life had gone through the same things. 
Each one had a dark, looming hell of her own which she had to deal with.
My demons eventually moved on to high school, but their marks still remain.
Side effects may include and are not limited to anxiety, depression, and loneliness.
​Looking back at the small, broken path I've been stumbling along, 
I see huge blotches of darkness I wish I could erase. 
No matter how hard I try to block that out I know that my Hell isn't going to give up that easily.
It will come back in many different names and faces and places, but there is always the small comfort that things can, and will, get better. 
You have a choice to make: Hell may bruise your heel, but you can crush its head. 
You can sit and let your Hell swallow you whole or you can go down fighting. 
And when they taunt you, laugh at you, abuse you, they had better know 
That you will always be there to fight back,
Come hell or high water.