I Start To Crack At Four Hundred

I Turn And Put My Lips Close To Peeta's And Drop My Eyelids In Imitation... "he Offered Me Sugar And Wanted To Know All My Secrets," I Say In My Best Seductive Voice.

I’ve Stopped Talking Because There’s Really Nothing Left To Say And There’s This Piercing Sort Of Pain Where My Heart Is. Maybe I’m Even Having A Heart Attack, But It Doesn’t Seem Worth Mentioning.

My Little Sister, Prim, Curled Up On Her Side, Cocooned In My Mother’s Body, Their Cheeks Pressed Together. In Sleep, My Mother Looks Younger, Still Worn But Not So Beaten-down. Prim’s Face Is As Fresh As A Raindrop, As Lovely As The Primrose For Which She Was Named. My Mother Was Very Beautiful Once, Too. Or So They Tell Me.

In District 12, Looking Old Is Something Of An Achievement Since So Many People Die Early. You See An Elderly Person, You Want To Congratulate Them On Their Longevity, Ask The Secret Of Survival. A Plump Person Is Envied Because They Aren't Scraping By Like The Majority Of Us. But Here Is Different. Wrinkles Aren't Desirable. A Round Belly Isn't A Sign Of Success.

It’s The Final Word In Camouflage. Forget Chucking Weights Around. Peeta Should Have Gone Into His Private Session With The Gamemakers And Painted Himself Into A Tree. Or A Boulder. Or A Muddy Bank Full Of Weeds.