stale breaded heart

I felt like stale bread.

Weird way to approach the feeling, but there's no other way to describe it. I haven't taken a single step outside of my house ever since I got home. I don't want the world to know that I died, but I am here. I can't say I expected to never return when I died, because it's hard to say what I expected when I was dead. I don't think any dead corpse thinks they'll be able to think again. They can't think in the first place, but here I am. Thinking, breathing, living.

I did not expect to think my last breath in the 80th Hunger Games was my first breath in the embodiment of my name. Hellion. Fitting the one bitch named Hell has to live with it, even when she is dead. My breath felt stale. It was just there. Dry. It had no life, it had no hope. It had no emotion. I'm a corpse, after all. I shouldn't have feeling. I shouldn't have thought. I shouldn't be able to touch the scar on my eye and realize that -holy shit-, I don't have an eye anymore.

It's been months since I've stepped outside of my house, let alone my bedroom. But it is time to face the world. Not all lives are meant to be hidden from the world. Even the dead ones. It's about time I pay respect to the life that I used to live, because that one has died. It's my farewell to, well, the same life I live now. Nothing has changed. I'm still a bitch, I'm still just as gay as I was before.

I'm just floating. You know that feeling?? You just feel like you're floating, you don't walk. No, this isn't a metaphor for smoking whatever shit the people in the alleyways here have, it's a genuine feeling. You can't feel yourself moving your legs to move, but your head registers that you're moving. You can see yourself move.

Or in my case, see half of what you're doing. Bitch of a eye doesn't do shit for me.

Anyways. Back to my funeral. It's about time that I recognize that I might as well get over myself for once and get out of the house. Sure, it could've been the victory tour talking, but it felt like I had to. It's the least I could do for her.

I won't dare say her name.

Releasing a sigh louder than a teenager sassing their mother, I get up to head on out. A funeral was to be done, and an enemy friend was to be seen.

---

It was awful. My leg felt like wood scraping against each other. I felt stiff. The stale bread thing, really. It's a thing. Sure, call me crazy for naming myself stale bread. You can call me crazy for still being alive as well. You can call me crazy for not wanting to get an eye back, but I'm now the badass lesbian eyepatch girl from District 12 that escaped from the games. And not as a victor.

Not sure about you, but I think I just won the badass trophy.

Time flew during the ceremony. She stood there. I stood here. Mitchell stood somewhere else and my heart stood on the stage.

My feet flew towards the stage as I saw her, and I spoke.

"Hi."

I was supposed to forget about you.