We Fight, We Dare, We

It's Not Easy To Find A Topic. Talking Of Home Is Painful. Talking Of The Present Unbearable.

For Me, It's Better To Wake Up With A Paintbrush Than A Knife In My Hand. -peeta

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.

But It's Posy, Gale's Five-year-old Sister, Who Helps The Most. She Scoots Along The Bench To Octavia And Touches Her Skin With A Tentative Finger. “you're Green. Are You Sick?” “it's A Fashion Thing, Posy. Like Wearing Lipstick,” I Say. “it's Meant To Be Pretty,” Whispers Octavia, And I Can See The Tears Threatening To Spill Over Her Lashes. Posy Considers This And Says Matter-of-factly, “i Think You'd Be Pretty In Any Color.

I Look At Peeta And He Gives Me A Sad Smile. I Hear Haymitch's Voice. "you Could Do A Lot Worse." At This Moment, It's Impossible To Imagine How I Could Do Any Better. The Gift...it Is Perfect. So When I Rise Up On My Tiptoe To Kiss Him, It Doesn't Seem Forced At All.