I think I’m depressed
Like, more than usual.
Or at least, more than I thought I was.
I don’t think I could give you a quality about myself that I genuinely like (no catches!) if you had a gun to my head.
In fact, I bet I would argue with you if you named one.
I know what people say they like about me, but I also know that those same traits are exactly what everyone grows tired of, so how good can they really be?
They love my energy until it’s too much.
They love my creativity until I have an idea that they don’t like.
They love my passion until it turns to obsession.
They love how good I am with words until I wield them like weapons.
Everyone adores the peaks and fears the valleys, but I fear that my personality delves deeper than it rises high, so what right do I have to take up so much space?
All I seem to do is offer people a glimmer of fun before the reality of me catches up. 
Everyone says otherwise so I try to maintain the façade, but when my mirror shows me such a different image, it’s hard to believe what they claim to see.