I used to be bullied.

The sun never used to shine on my soul.
Instead, a black darkness would creep on me everyday.
My mind was full of decay, my heart full of sadness.
I'd wake up, hoping thunder would pass through my open windows,
and shoot me with its powerful, mighty voltage.
The window was never closed.
Bruises and cuts were my best friends,
the only things that allowed me to release my anger.
I was weak and defenceless on the outside, yet strong on the in,
so my arms and legs suffered outside, but my heart stayed pure.
My cuts curved professionally into small but mighty patterns.
I was emotionless, as emotionless as a cold heart gets,
withered, empty, described as being unwanted and alone,
but I always told myself that a 'mistake' would be my best definition.
Too hard to keep going, too easy to look back and suffer,
humiliation and hatred always followed my every move,
combining to form my black shadow, following day and night.
My shadow was the blackest.