If my Happiness were a person

If my happiness was a person, she’d be short. Her skin pale, and her eyes dimmed. She’d rarely laugh, and her smiles would be small and short-lived, like herself. She’d be shy, but when she was comfortable, she could glow as bright as the biggest star in all of existence. She’s like a drug, once she activates, she’d have you running for a few hours, then you’d crash into exhaustion.

My depression would be a cliche. Oh she’d be basic. Probably fat and annoying.  Her hair is thinning and she has pimples all over her face. She’d have to ruin everything joyful, yet she’d act like she doesn’t want to be an inconvenience. At night, she cries until her lungs are wrinkled from exhaust, then she’d sleep for 17 hours straight. When she awakes, she’d eat half a fridge.

My anger wouldn’t even be named anger, she’d be f*****g rage. You don’t see her often, but she’s there. Oh, and when she wants to be seen, there’s no way you could hide from her. She can imagine all sorts of ways to express herself, but she has to be extremely pressed for her to take physical action. She’s  extremely tall, and somewhat lean, but she can bench a f*****g car if she wanted to.

My anxiety would be shy, obviously, but it would be more because she’s scared of everyone and everything. She has a backup plan for everything, and absolutely thinks out every scenario. Zombie apocalypse, Sinkhole, back up school project, she’ll improvise a way to get out of whatever she needs to.. Yet, sometimes, very very late at night, she gets this gnawing feeling in her gut that makes her cry. Everything is in her mind all at once. When she’s alone it’s awful to have her thoughts trapped in her head. When she’s in public, she scrapes at her skin as hard as she can. It’s the only thing that distracts her from the worrying feeling building up inside. She deals with genuine terror anytime a plan changes, and she doesn’t even understand why.