This is a poem of when Peeta gives Katniss the burnt bread. I do not own the Hunger Games! I hope you like it! :)
It's raining.
The clouds could be crying because of the sorry fate that is my life.
Or then again they could be laughing at my misfortune so much it has brought them to tears.
I walk through town, not wanting to face the scene at my home.
My mother, depressed and unresponsive.
My sister, frail and weak.
It's too much for me to take.
I drop the bundle of clothes I had been trying to sell.
The mud seeps through fast, and the clothes soak it up like a sponge put under water.
It's like my life likes mocking me.
I walk on, treading on the garments.
Trash.
What I feel like and now what I search through.
Lightning strikes, an omen of more misfortune coming.
I look up; and see a face seething with rage, hatred even.
A yell, a command, a threat.
I run through the wetness, thinking what else could go wrong?
I crouch by a sloppy pen.
Maybe I should just die here.
In the cold.
In the wet.
In the rain.
Another yell.
A slap, a flash of orange in the bakery kitchen.
The door opens.
A boy, strong in stature, a mark of red fresh on his face.
Carrying two loaves of bread, burned to a crisp.
He glances back, and then looks at me.
I look up, my wet matted hair hanging in my face.
A rain demon, waiting for a well-deserved and long awaited death to come to her.
He smiles.
The loaves are tossed into my lap.
He runs off quickly.
I stare at him as he runs.
Then glance at the gift on my sodden lap.
Could it be?
Have I just received a gift from this young stranger?
This boy with the bread?
I am shocked as I sit.
Then, slowly, I rise, cradling the bounty.
I run, straight to my home.
I arrive breathless.
A feast.
That's what we will have tonight.
The next day, I ponder over this happening.
I see him there, across the courtyard.
A red, black, and blue mark across his cheek.
The price he paid to help me survive.
He glances over, smiles quickly, but glances away just as quickly.
I smile.
The first smile formed by my lips since the death of my father.
I look down, and see something.
A dandelion.
Bright yellow.
I look up again, seeing him there, the boy with the bread.
It's surely a sign.
A sign of hope.
A sign of new beginnings.
A sign that my life is not over, not yet.
A sign given to me, by the boy with the bread.