I Don't Want To Cry.

My Little Sister, Prim, Curled Up On Her Side, Cocooned In My Mother’s Body, Their Cheeks Pressed Together. In Sleep, My Mother Looks Younger, Still Worn But Not So Beaten-down. Prim’s Face Is As Fresh As A Raindrop, As Lovely As The Primrose For Which She Was Named. My Mother Was Very Beautiful Once, Too. Or So They Tell Me.

When I Ask Plutarch About His Absence, He Just Shakes His Head And Says, "he Couldnt Face It." "haymitch? Not Able To Face Something? Wanted A Day Off, More Likely," I Say. "i Think His Actual Words Were 'i Couldn't Face It Without A Bottle,'" Says Plutarch.

I Cover My Face With My Arms Because This Isn't Happening. It Isn't Possible. For Someone To Make Peeta Forget He Loves Me . . . No One Can Do That.

I Walk Around The Room Eating Goose Liver And Puffy Bread Until There's A Knock On The Door. Effie's Calling Me To Dinner. Good. I'm Starving.

Having An Eye For Beauty Isn't The Same Thing As A Weakness...except Possibly When It Comes To You.