You don’t forget the face of the person who was your last hope.

You’ve got about as much charm as a dead slug.

I merely feel emptyness. A hollow of dead brush where flowers use to bloom.

What I need is the dandelion in the spring. The bright yellow that means rebirth instead of destruction. The promise that life can go on, no matter how bad our losses. That it can be good again.

Peeta bakes. I hunt. Haymitch drinks until the liquor runs out.

Better not to give in to it.

Frankly, I could use a little sugarcoating.