Crying Is Not An Option.

Sometimes, When I Clean A Kill, I Feed Buttercup The Entrails. He Has Stopped Hissing At Me. Entrails. No Hissing. This Is The Closest We Will Ever Come To Love.

The Air's Warm With Hopeful Hints Of Spring In It. Spring Would Be A Good Time For An Uprising, I Think. Everyone Feels Less Vulnerable Once Winter Passes.

I Know. I Was Hoping," I Say. "exactly. Because You're Desperate," Says Haymitch. I Don't Argue Because, Of Course, He's Right.

What Do You Think?" He Asks. "i Hate Them," I Say. I Can Almost Smell The Blood, The Dirt, The Unnatural Breath Of The Mutt. "all I Do Is Go Around Trying To Forget The Arena And You've Brought It Back To Life. How Do You Remember These Things So Exactly?" "i See Them Every Night," He Says.

My Mother Just Wanted Me To Forget It. So, Of Course, Every Word Was Immediately, Irrevocably Branded Into My Brain.