These hands I hold, these bloodstained hands I hold. I stare at them with disbelief. These hands are not mine. These hands do not belong to the little girl from district 10, that little girl who was thought to stand no chance. These hands belong to a killer. When did these hands become mine when did I become a killer? These hands I hold they are not mine, but in so many ways the are mine. The hands I remembered were small and soft not callused and blood stained. Maybe these hands are not mine, but represent what I am becoming, rather what I have became. I am only 16 but these hands have killed. Not once, not twice, countless times. My #life line stretches across my palm like a path through the woods so long almost infinite. The #life lines of the hands of my victims were so long but I ended them, I ended them before they had the chance to grow, to thrive, to dance in the light of the world, to see what #life has to offer. I take my knife and look long and hard at these hands I hold. I take my knife and cut seven slits in my #life line, one for each kill, and then I add one more my final kill, myself. These hands I hold belong to a murderer. I am not a murder. I must put an end to these hands. These hands I hold, now all they hold is the ground as the #life drains from my body.