From what I’ve heard, she’s disappeared from existence. She’s not in Stanford. She’s not in her apartment. Hell, no one’s heard from her in over a year.
Maybe that’s why I gave up writing her? It’s almost like I can feel her giving into her addiction, and the thought of it makes me feel helpless.
So damn helpless.
Dear Poppy,
It starts the way it always does, informal and lacking emotion. I press the pen down, the ink bleeding the words for me. I drag a hand down my face, exhaling loudly before trying again, slower this time, forcing the thoughts into something that doesn’t sound completely unhinged.
Dear Poppy,
Prison is as terrible as you’d imagine, which I’m sure doesn’t surprise you. The food is shit, the beds are worse, and the company makes me miss people I used to hate. You’d probably love it here. There’s plenty of assholes here you could lay into and yell at. You’d fit right in, raising hell, pretending you’re tougher than everyone while secretly being the most terrified person in the room.
My chest clenches. I already hate this. This sounds more like a letter to a friend than the declaration it needs to be.
I miss you.
The word is scribbled three times before I stop myself.
Fuck, I love you.
I shift on the bunk, the paper trembling slightly in my hand.
Something feels off today. The air is charged with something nefarious. I’ve seen the way people are whispering, the stares that linger for far too long.
They’re all waiting for me to break.
The second I do, it’s over. I’ve done okay so far. Managed to hold my own a few times, but I’m all alone out here. No friends. No one to help me. I’ve tried buddying up with a few different groups, but I don’t trust anyone.
Even my bunkmate treats me like a leper.
Maybe that’s what I deserve? I mean, my friends are all out there while I’m rotting away in this hell hole.
Shit, I don’t know why I’m even writing this. Maybe because thinking about you makes this place feel less like a coffin. Maybe because you’re the only thing in my head that doesn’t belong to these walls.
I hesitate, the next words feeling heavier.
I keep picturing your face. The way you look at me like I’m a problem you never asked for, and how your voice gets even cuter when you’re pissed off at me. That just means you’re cute all the time. Because there isn’t a day that goes by where you don’t wish I was dead. I’m joking, of course. I don’t think your hatred for me runs that cold. Does it?
Gah, this is so stupid!
I’m writing to a girl who clearly hates my guts, knowing that your image and all our memories together, are the only thing that keeps me from grabbing my sheet and hanging myself from these stupid bars. Prison makes people fucking crazy.
You’re probably still mad at me. Hell, you’re probably pretending I don’t exist. Can’t say that I blame you. Our history is pretty fucked up. But that’s why everything about us just makes sense.
The fighting… the one-sided hate… all of it hides behind one major thing. Love.
That’s right, Poppy, I’m saying it so everything is clear for both of us.
I love you.
Still...
Always…
Despite everything you’ve said and done. I love you.
Shit, I fucking went to prison for you.
