Oh, Well. At Least My Blood Is

I Know He Was Desperate. That Makes People Do All Kinds Of Crazy Things.

I Press My Ear Against His Chest, To The Spot Where I Always Rest My Head, Where I Know I Will Hear The Strong And Steady Beat Of His Heart. Instead, I Find Silence.

She’s Really Gone, Then. The Little Girl With The Back Of Her Shirt Sticking Out Like A Duck Tail, The One Who Needed Help Reaching The Dishes, And Who Begged To See The Frosted Cakes In The Bakery Window. Time And Tragedy Have Forced Her To Grow Too Quickly, At Least For My Taste, Into A Young Woman Who Stitches Bleeding Wounds And Knows Our Mother Can Hear Only So Much.

They Play In The Meadow. The Dancing Girl With The Dark Hair And Blue Eyes. The Boy With Blond Curls And Gray Eyes, Struggling To Keep Up With Her On His Chubby Toddler Legs. It Took Five, Ten, Fifteen Years For Me To Agree. But Peeta Wanted Them So Badly. When I First Felt Her Stirring Inside Of Me, I Was Consumed With A Terror That Felt As Old As Life Itself. Only The Joy Of Holding Her In My Arms Could Tame It.

The Idea Of Being Strong For Someone Else Having Never Entered Their Heads, I Find Myself In The Position Of Having To Console Them. Since I'm The Person Going In To Be Slaughtered, This Is Somewhat Annoying.