We fight, we dare, we end our hunger for justice.
Oh, Peeta, Don’t make me sorry I restarted your heart.
Fire is catching! And if we burn, you burn with us!
I must have loved you a lot.
I drag myself out of nightmares each morning and find there’s no relief in waking.
You’re a painter. You’re a baker. You like to sleep with the windows open. You never take sugar in your tea. And you always double-knot your shoelaces.
Oh, my dear Miss Everdeen. I thought we had an agreement not to lie to each other.
No one knows what to do with you, girlie.
I’m going to be the Mockingjay.
Plutarch rushes to reassure me. “Oh, no, Katniss. Not your wedding. Finnick and Annie’s. All you need to do is show up and pretend to be happy for them.” “That’s one of the few things I won’t have to pretend, Plutarch,” I tell him.
Something flickers across his bloodshot eyes. Pain.
Fire beats roses again.
Katniss, there is no District Twelve...
The damage, the fatigue, the imperfections. That’s how they recognize me; Why I belong to them.
I no longer feel any allegiance to these monsters called human beings, despise being one myself.
Instead, I watch myself get shot on television.
Mostly we just add to the piles of rainbow glass that’s been blown off the exteriors of the cany-colored buildings.
For the last year his grandma had been slipping in and out of reality. One minute she was as clear as a bell and the next she was calling him Simon. Who was Simon? He had no idea.
This was the door to both sustenance and sanity. And we were each other’s key.
Whatever it takes to break you.