There's Plenty Of Blame To

The Realization That I’d Have Nothing To Take Home Had Finally Sunk In. My Knees Buckled And I Slid Down The Tree Trunk To Its Roots. It Was Too Much. I Was Too Sick And Weak And Tired, Oh, So Tired. Let Them Call The Peacekeepers And Take Us To The Community Home, I Thought. Or Better Yet, Let Me Die Right Here In The Rain.

The Damage, The Fatigue, The Imperfections. That's How They Recognize Me; Why I Belong To Them.

I Really Can't Think About Kissing When I've Got A Rebellion To Incite.

No One Really Needs Me," He Says, And There Is No Self-pity In His Voice. It's True His Family Doesn't Need Him. They Will Mourn Him, As Will A Handful Of Friends. But They Will Get On. Even Haymitch, With The Help Of A Lot Of White Liquor, Will Get On. I Realize Only One Person Will Be Damaged Beyond Repair If Peeta Dies. Me. "i Do," I Say. "i Need You.

You Would Think After All The Hours I’d Spent With Gale– Watching Him Talk And Laugh And Frown– That I Would Know All There Was To Know About His Lips. But I Hadn’t Imagined How Warm They Would Feel Pressed Against My Own. Or How Those Hands [...] Could Entrap Me… I Vaguely Remember My Fingers, Curled Tightly Closed, Resting On His Chest.