This city's been asleep for decades, never wondering whether or not the outside world still remembers it. We never wander outside of its walls, for the blank stares of the rest of society would cast us into a life of small-town boredom. The rest of the the world lives on;
but us? We love on.
This city is disgusting and vile. The system is jacked, filled with the entitled ones who believe they deserve more because they've been through more, but in truth, we've all been through the same thing. There are no rules as long as you keep to yourself and know your place. It feels alive; the skylines buzz with neon lights and lackluster enthusiasm while the ground is caked with dirt and grime and wicked people. In reality, it's a corpse of what it used to be.
There are some here that I love. We learn to live with the knowledge that love is our only hope, love is what we live for. The people here don't know what love is. They think it's sex and perfume and lingerie bought in the back corner of a gas station. They think it's bold lipstick and buzzing signs and clubs filled with thirsty men. They don't know about the careful whispers and the tender kisses; the warm nights and the caring gazes across a room filled with light from a fireplace. We're taught to learn from love and hope it comes our way, but only in the way presented normally. If you're different, you're an outcast and don't belong here. In a city of outcasts, they still haven't learned that there isn't a difference between us
all.
I didn't ask for this life. No one does. You're born into it, and you don't understand how wrong it all is until you're older and the it strikes you in the head. Some never notice, but the truth is that most do and choose to ignore it out of fear. There are some in this city who fear me, some who have hurt me, and some who wish I was dead. Either way, the choices I've made are mine and I wouldn't change them.
This is all that is left, and you can do what you want with it. Keep it in your pocket and never share it or let it serve to you as a warning. If this were a movie, I would ride off into a sunset in a car filled with roses and a slow song playing on the radio, his hand in mine. But this isn't a movie. These are the Badlands.
