#*meme respone

my heart twists in my chest and i reach out immediately to rest my hand on her shoulder before pulling her in for a hug. she's getting taller and it makes the lump in my throat even worse. "you're not going to," i say it into the top of her head as i hold her. i shouldn't make promises like that. i never should have, but i've never been able to stop myself. i would promise her the stars if she asked for them. "i won't let that happen."

is that what i'm doing? i feel like an exposed nerve, like a raw burn, floating without thought or purpose through the fluorescent halls of thirteen. the ring of bruises around my throat have faded to a sickly green-yellow combination but people still stare at them when they see me, even when they try not to. delly had given me a sympathetic smile and asked if i wanted to know how peeta was doing and it had stung that he would talk to her and not to me; i think she saw how it hurt because she'd apologized right after. so i don't know if i'm keeping it inside. i'm not talking about it, sure, but what is there to say?

they don't want me on camera until the bruises are less visible and i'd dissolved into incoherent tears when someone had tried to swipe makeup over them, so i'm still firmly on medical leave as my one and only task for the day. it means no one will scowl at me when they realize i've bitten my lips raw and chapped, gnawing at the lower one even now when i look at caesar and try to imagine him the first time we spoke. my dress. girl on fire. cinna in the audience, somewhere.