Do I Really Want Him Dead? What

The Ones I Loved Fly As Birds In The Open Sky Above Me. Soaring, Weaving, Calling To Me To Join Them. I Want So Badly To Follow Them, But The Seawater Saturates My Wings, Making It Impossible To Lift Them. The Ones I Hated Have Taken To The Water, Horrible Scaled Things That Tear My Salty Flesh With Needle Teeth. Biting Again And Again. Dragging Me Beneath The Surface.

Whenever I Write A Story, I Hope It Appeals To Both Boys And Girls.

I Knew It. In This Way, Peeta's Not Hard To Predict. While I Was Wallowing Around On The Floor Of That Cellar, Thinking Only Of Myself, He Was Here, Thinking Of Me. Shame Isn't A Strong Enough Word For What I Feel.

The Most Exciting Thing Either Of Us Does Is Nap.

I Drink In His Wholeness, The Soudness Of His Body And Mind. It Runs Through Me Like The Morphling They Give Me In The Hospital, Dulling The Pain Of The Last Weeks.