Oh, And I Suppose The Apples Ate

Go To Sleep," He Says Softly. His Hand Brushes The Lose Strands Of My Hair Off My Forehead. Unlike The Staged Kisses And Caresses So Far, This Gesture Seems Natural And Comforting. I Don't Want Him To Stop And He Doesn't. He's Still Stroking My Hair When I Fall Asleep.

My Voice, At First Rough And Breaking On The High Notes, Warms Up Into Something Splendid. A Voice That Would Make The Mockingjays Fall Silent And Then Tumble Over Themselves To Join In.

I Am Not Pretty. I Am Not Beautiful. I Am As Radiant As The Sun.

Even In War There Should Be Lines You Didn't Cross.

Well, I Don't Have Much Competition Here." "you Don't Have Much Competition Anywhere.