A flier penned in neat but overly large hand writing, at it's title is simply the word "Ouste!"
"Ouste, ouste!" The battlecry of the upper generation.
In their war on the lesser born mutation.
"Do not pollute our great city!" They demand,
as I go by with my heart in my hand.
"I just want to be here;" I reason
"...to stay and stand, just like it's your right."
"Canalais;" The Gendarme warns, pistol in hand.
"We don't want your kind. Out of sight."
I clench my fists and grind my teeth as the anger seethes within me.
But I hear my mother, placatingly; "Do not be the monster they expect you to be."
I want to scream in the face of this mass hate;
"I am not the reason for your city's polluted state!"
"The venom you spit and the lies you wield have leaked into the cobbled seams and poisoned your home from within."
"I am the result. The twisted reflection of your corruption inside.
You blame me, too blind to see, from inside your rotting estates you hide."
But I don't say that.
I just hope...
Hope I can stay...
Just a little longer...
Everyday.
