Hunger Games is a love letter.
Hunger Games is a love letter to Prim. A love letter to the gentle, to the healers, to the kindly headstrong, to the wise. A love letter to the defenceless and precious, to those who have seen too much too soon — a love letter to those we yearn to save and, often, can’t.
Hunger Games is a love letter to Madge. A love letter to those who love quietly, to those whose silent actions say a lot more than words ever could. A love letter to the companions whose acceptance and support warm our hearts and touch our souls, to those who stay with us forever — sometimes, regrettably, only in memory.
Hunger Games is a love letter to Johanna. A love letter to the wounded, to those made harsh by loss. A love letter to those who’d rather be loathed than deemed an inconvenience, to those who don’t know how to let people in anymore — a love letter to those who don’t remember what it is to be loved.
Hunger Games is a love letter to Rue. A love letter to the sweet and generous, to the brutally sacrificed, to the victims of injustice. A love letter to those who could have been saved but weren’t, to those who deserved better, to the innocent — a love letter to the children who will be forever mourned.
Hunger Games is a love letter to Finnick. A love letter to those whose pain was made to be spectacle, to the dehumanised and abused. A love letter to those who put up a wall and hide their pain, to the brave and broken, to the soulfully beautiful — to those who sometimes fall to pieces and can’t put them back together.
Hunger Games is a love letter to Haymitch. A love letter to those who never stopped hurting, to those who dismantle themselves to cope with what’s left, to those who’d rather forget. A love letter to those whose self-hatred struggles with all the good they desperately want to do, those who’d love to love, those who are afraid to fall asleep — those who are irreparably torn in the aftermath.
Hunger Games is a love letter to Katniss’ father, whose memory is the only survivor, and to Katniss’ mother, who is left to pick up the pieces.
Hunger Games is a love letter to Peeta, the dandelion in the spring. A love letter to rebirth and hope, to the growth of flowers among the ashes, to the promise of a better future. A love letter to love, the selfless, healing love, the one that breathes life back into starved lungs, the one that makes a home, the unconditional embrace that warms wintery hearts — a love letter to a sunset that calls for dawn.
Hunger Games is a love letter to Katniss, to the fire of a revolution that yearns for peace. A love letter to those who, surrounded by violence, choose compassion, a love letter for the inadequate and chosen, a love letter for those who are exhausted and forced to get up. A love letter for those who, after the fight, seek to rebuild, a love letter for those who are broken and selfless, a love letter for those who tried their hardest to save those they loved — a love letter to the survivors.
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