LIKE A CANARY .

BITTER,    ANGRY,    LONELY  !    this    are    the    thought    that    fill    your    head,    that    fill    your    every    waking    moment.    angry    at    the    capitol,     bitter    towards    the    situation    life    has    put    you    in.    lonely,    as    the    one    you    crave    no    longer    in    the    same    reality    as    you.    you    wish    him    to    be    better,    you    wanted    him    to    get    better.    nothing    else,    at   least    she    seems    to    be    in    the    same    page    as    you.    wanting    to    get    away.    the    mockingjay,    the    WEAPON    to    bring    snow    down.    everything    came    down    to    that.    SNOW    and    his    games.    you    were   done    playing    the    game.

❝  all    the    fabric    makes    me    feel    trapped,    though.    everything    seems    so    much    closer.  ❞    you    felt    trapped    there.    too    close,    too    harsh.    ❝  here,    nobody    comes    looking,    but    the    smell,   it…    makes    it    harder    to    breath,  ❞    and    keeps    most    of    your    panic    attacks    at    bay.

     look at them, the brave and bold victors of panem, debating the merits of one closet versus another. here is the proof for anyone’s eyes to see — how the games RUIN. these women are no longer humans ; they are spineless, pitiful creatures constructed from the damaged shells of their former selves, curling under whatever shattered pieces they can salvage in order to survive. and here is thirteen, attempting to make use of them without even bothering to try and put them back together first. nothing has changed. nothing will ever change.

BONY FINGERS ARE PICKING AT A STALE ROLL, the only food she’ll force herself to eat here. not a single bite has been taken when the other approaches, simply feigning the appearance of eating so that questions will cease to hound her. a gentle smile is offered, curving about rose lips as the victor ( oh, how little a once prolific title holds now )sits. the company is appreciated. so rare is it that she is seen alone these days, yet never will they allow eighty-five pounds of pacifism to train as her beloved does. 

and the woman’s words do not offend her half as much they should. far worse reminders remain to haunt her still — the bruises that dust inner thighs, wrists, stomach, neck. they cannot be ignored in the way she has always leaned on, tainted flesh staring back at her so blatantly. ocean hues flicker to her tray, the same grey as everything else in the compound. tight tension will seize small frame, white knuckles curled around the table’s edge, before she can relax again. the memories are unwelcome, unavoidable.

“i don’t like it here either.” a stiff beat, “and, no te preocupes. no worries— it’s alright. we all just want to go home.”

     to go home. wiress muses on that, a thin hand picking up a spoon to swirl her food into mishmash as she thinks. there is a specific emotional connotation to the word H O M E that wiress does not recognize ; she feels as though she has never known such a place. home. is home district three, with its towering tenements and smoggy skies, and people who look at her with some strange blend of pity and fear ? it certainly isn’t thirteen, nor is it the capitol, which would certainly never take her back after what she’s done to thwart them now. home, home, home. she brings the utensil to her mouth, gently sucking on the end as she might a pencil in her workshop.