A/N: Well, it's that time of the year again – my obligatory time to cry more than usual about Finnick and Katniss. Fair warning: this doesn't make the most sense, but it really wasn't supposed to. I'd appreciate reviews!


forever meant nothing when we had nothing

now you've got to breathe
it's only where your feet fell
people so cool
somebody wants you
a lover come back
feel real ––deptford goth


You can't have it both ways: tell me to care and then expect me not to when it has something to do with you.

The sky is a collection of forest fires, refusing to drown in the reflection of the sea. What storm, pray tell, is this? A hurricane of change originating on the ground, but destroying nothing except itself? Or my doubts where they shouldn't be – outside my body and inside your chest, living within the spaces between our fingertips? We're waiting to be both less and more simultaneously, even when all we can see is smoke and blood, staining our paintings of an ideal world with the grim colors of fear and despair.


I knew a girl with an arm of steel and a heart supposedly made of stone, who disproved the theory that things that haven't come together in the first place can't fall apart: wrong. It's the people we don't know matter that end up destroying us after we come to terms with how there's no difference between nightmares and reality. Sometimes you'd just rather not wake up at all.

When I realized that love and hate were not the only things with a thin line between them, I began to understand what happened to all of us. There are thin lines between thoughts and time, you and I, day and night, hello and goodbye. How many sides are there to one coin? I'd like to find out. So I reach across my dreams and forget to breathe as I lean towards the empty chair next to me, stitching together pieces that don't fit and creating a meaning that doesn't exist.

It turns out that perpendicular lines are just as depressing as parallel ones – perhaps crossing once and not meeting ever again is worse than running alongside each other forever and not meeting or crossing at all.


"You're going to save us," I had told you during a moment of weakness, and I hadn't been talking about The Girl on Fire accidentally sparking revolutions or battling the narrative of an oppressive government – I had been talking about missed chances and lost lovers. There was a lot that had to be sacrificed upon dedicating our lives to a rebellion. I knew that. I knew that you knew it, too, but wanted to resist it.

You had laughed, a hollow sound that I remember all too well because it still haunts me – the art of playing graveyard games, an incessant reminder of the politics of pretending. I can almost hear what had been going through your mind but you'd been too exhausted to say: I can't even save myself. That had held true for both of us, yet you were stronger. You always had been.


I wanted you, but the tragedy was that you were the one I wanted to be.

The ground speaks to me before it swallows me up – You've failed, it says, but I shake my head. Even after hearing that there's nothing left, I disagree vehemently, relying on my memories. That's the basic formula of my insanity: misplaced optimism, nostalgia, and you. The monsters are getting louder now, and there's no one here to save me or help me unknow what becomes of those with too much hope.