faded violence

Mila Ponce, '25

my doorway

it stands guarding a 

paradise; a prison

home to beautifully tender wounds—

dusted with roses and sore to the touch

you may choose to see these wounds

their hurt, their torment– gently rusted with fatigue

the milky innocence to faded violence

that lingers ever-presently on the walls

or you may shatter its facade and sigh

admire the silky feeling of closure

grab the knob

and shut it