Each time I wake,I think, At last, this is over, but it isn't.
For me, it's better to wake up with a paintbrush than a knife in my hand. -Peeta
All I can think of is the emaciated bodies of children on our kitchen table as my mother prescribes what the parent's can't give. More food.
Kind people have a way of working their way inside me and rooting there.
I am not pretty. I am not beautiful. I am as radiant as the sun.
One more time? For the audience?" he says. His voice isn't angry. It's hollow, which is worse. Already the boy with the bread is slipping away from me. I take his hand, holding on tightly, preparing for the cameras, and dreading the moment when I will finally have to let go.