Coen Tate {{ Seven (FIN)

Fifteen and I guess I can't blame him for leaving.

Our house was fragile, built on a burial ground of cardinal sin and abandonment. Toothpick walls and tissue paper shingles, it was never meant to withstand their marriage. He was a lumberjack, trunk and twig, sturdy and durable. 

She was a hurricane. Terror, disaster, tragedy rolled into one. Graced with the uncanny ability to lace poison with voice and spit it at her enemies. My father signed a death pact when he vowed to her amongst the forests of Seven, blinded , poisoned by toxins. But the force of her winds we're too strong even for the trunk of my father, and I watched her rip him from the ground and carry him away into the distance. 

Eighteen and I'll never blame myself for leaving. 

Mom shut down after he left, venom dripping from her tongue into her bloodstream, body crippled by depression.
Mind shut down from toxin. 

Twenty-three and I can't blame Sue Tate for leaving. 

We shared the last name, connected by father and kept apart by fate. I never knew him, I guess I never tried.
I reunited with my father on the third day of the Games. I couldn't bring myself to blame him for what he did.
He told me of a family, another family. Kids in the unknown, hatred carved deep by the discovery of a brother they never knew.
I couldn't blame them for blaming him, either. 

Twenty-five and I can't blame myself for staying away from them for this long.

Tree trunks in their souls, ripping up from the ground they're planted in by the hurricane that was the 70th.
I don't blame them, I don't blame him. Maybe lies aren't my problem, maybe blame is. 

Twenty-six 
And I guess I can't put the blame on anyone.