Sometimes, when I clean a kill, I feed Buttercup the entrails. He has stopped hissing at me. Entrails. No hissing. This is the closest we will ever come to love.

You’re not leaving me here alone,” I say. Because if he dies, I’ll never go home, not really. I’ll spend the rest of my life in this arena, trying to think my way out.

Aim higher in case you fall short.

Closing my eyes doesn't help. Fire burns brighter in the darkness.

For there to be betrayal, there would have to have been trust first.

So I only say, "So what should we do with our last few days?" "I just want to spend every possible minute of the rest of my life with you," Peeta replies.

Gale is mine. I am his. Anything else is unthinkable.

I really can't think about kissing when I've got a rebellion to incite.

Because when he sings...even the birds stop to listen.

I think....you still have no idea. The effect you can have.

I drag myself out of nightmares each morning and find there's no relief in waking.

Technically, I am unarmed. But no one should ever underestimate the harm that fingernails can do. Especially if the target is unprepared.

Rue, who when you ask her what she loves most in the world, replies, of all things, “Music.

Here's some advice. Stay alive.

We had to save you because you're the mockingjay, Katniss," says Plutarch. "While you live, the revolution lives.

At some point, you have to stop running and turn around and face whoever wants you dead.The hard thing is finding the courage to do it.

Are you, are you coming to the tree? Wear a necklace of rope, side by side with me. Strange things did happen here. No stranger would let it be if we met up At midnight in the hanging tree.

Sometimes when I'm alone, I take the pearl from where it lives in my pocket and try to remember the boy with the bread, the strong arms that warded off nightmares on the train, the kisses in the arena.

Yes, and I’m sure the arena will be full of bags of flour for me to chuck at people.

Kind people have a way of working their way inside me and rooting there.

Katniss, the girl who was on fire!

The bird, the pin, the song, the berries, the watch, the cracker, the dress that burst into flames. I am the mockingjay. The one that survived despite the Capitol's plans. The symbol of the rebellion.

I clench his hands to the point of pain. "Stay with me." His pupils contract to pinpoints, dialate again rapidly, and then return to something resembling normalcy. "Always," he murmurs.

There are much worse games to play.