Everything is about them, not the dying boys and girls in the arena.

Most rats read. Our frustration is, we cannot hold a pen to write.

I don't want to cry. Everyone will make note of my tears and I'll be marked as an easy target. A weakling. I will give no one that satisfaction.

Sometimes when things are particularly bad, my brain will give me a happy dream.

As we ride the elevator Gale finally says “You're still angry.” “And you're still not sorry,” I reply. "I will stand by what I said. Do you want me to lie about it?” he asks. “No, I want you to rethink it and come up with the right opinion,” I tell him.

I'm more than just a piece in their Games.

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.