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You're alive, I whisper, pressing my palms against my cheeks, feeling the smile that's so wide it must look like a grimace. Peeta's alive.

Suzanne Collins

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Suzanne Collins
Age: 62
Born: 1962
Born: August 10
Executive Producer
Novelist
Science Fiction Writer
Screenwriter
Writer
Hartford
Connecticut
Suzanne Marie Collins
Suzanne Collins
Look
Whisper
Looks
Palms
Must
Cheeks
Like
Wide
Smile
Alive
Feeling
Grimace
Feelings
Pressing

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Got it, I say. Did you tell Peeta this? Don't have to, says Haymitch. He's already there.
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And to us, we're more married than any piece of paper or big party could make us.
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There's always hand-to-hand combat. All you need is to come up with a knife, and you'll at least stand a chance. If I get jumped, I'm dead! I can hear my voice rising in anger. But you won't! You'll be living up in some tree eating raw squirrels and picking off people with arrows.
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The numbness of his loss had passed, and the pain would hit me out of nowhere, doubling me over, racking my body with sobs. Where are you? I would cry out in my mind. Where have you gone? Of course, there was never any answer.
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Let me go!” I snarl at him, trying to wrest my arm from his grasp. “I can’t,” he says.
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Well, don't expect us to be too impressed. We just saw Finnick Odair in his underwear.
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His dad said even the cavemen had geniuses among them. Somebody had thought up the wheel.
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You're not going to die. I forbid it. All right? All right, he whispers.
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I'm not flailing now, as my muscles are rigid with the tension of holding myself together.
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Sorry excuses for hunters and friends. Both of us.
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I drink in his wholeness, the soudness of his body and mind. It runs through me like the morphling they give me in the hospital, dulling the pain of the last weeks.
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What I need is the dandelion in the spring. The bright yellow that means rebirth instead of destruction. The promise that life can go on, no matter how bad our losses. That it can be good again.
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Peeta looks me right in the eye and gives my hand what I think is meant to be a reassuring squeeze. Maybe it's just a nervous spasm.
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Ally. Peeta says the words slowly, tasting it. Friend. Lover. Victor. Enemy. Fiancee. Target. Mutt. Neighbor. Hunter. Tribute. Ally. I'll add it to the list of words I use to try to figure you out. The problem is, I can't tell what's real anymore, and what's made up.
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Why am I hopping around like some trained dog trying to please people I hate?
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What happens when we get back? I don't know. I guess we try and forget. I don't want to forget.
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