Depression is a lonesome soul. She lives in a small house with no lights on. Dark hair and dark clothes, a genuine smile never graces her face. She curls herself into a ball of black, making herself so small that she is barely noticed by most. She brings out tears in the dead of night as people lay in their beds. Gives them the sense of tiredness that can not be fixed with sleep.
Depression has no friends except the thoughts in her head. Wondering if she is good enough, wondering if her life is worth living. Wondering how much longer she will last. She is stuck in hole without a ladder or rope to get out. Falling and falling like Alice, until she reaches her dark twisted Wonderland. Full of things that make people cry or turn their head. Smelling of a potent rose with vanilla, addicting. The silence in this Wonderland is deafening, letting thoughts come to life, screaming. The taste of blood, metallic and of molasses, slow and sickly sweet.
Depression is an addicting woman if you ever meet. Depression is a lonely woman who only wants someone to love and to be loved.