Britney

I find new ways to lose myself; of course, they’re all self destructive, but I’m used to that.

I sit on the floor of the Pisces’ apartment, writing him a letter. “I didn’t know that people still wrote letters,” he says. His hair brushes against his eyes; he’s growing it out, and it makes him look more than ever like Kurt Cobain.

“Well, I do. I wrote you one in inpatient, remember?” We weren’t allowed to have pens or pencils, so I wrote him a letter with “MY HEART IS ON ITS DEATHBED” at the top in a purple marker. I felt like an angsty elementary schooler.

“You should write me more letters. Make this one long so I have something to read before I go to sleep.”

He’s in my dreams a lot. I stare at him far too much but there’s just something about his presence that won’t let me look away. God, I’m a total cliché.

I give him the letter. He grins and I leave. It’s past my curfew so by the time I get back to my neighborhood it’s dark and the trees from the park loom over me; all of this is comforting. I lie on a bench for a few minutes and it feels like home. The irrational part of me wants to fall asleep there. The streets are almost empty so I dance to Alien Sex Fiend and Siouxsie and the Banshees until I get home. I feel warm. ♦