the door

i place the key, carefully of course, into the hole of a new door, dark and dusty with the musk of a single year caked on as if cradled for ages in the nook of this grey alleyway. A turn creates nothing but creaking and tugging; I inherit the moldy odor as my own, struggling to open it, a hopeless endeavor, yet for some reason one that I, myself have chosen: one who so rarely invests his faith into anything that is so obviously worn and destroyed. With such youth however, hope cannot be resisted no matter how dark and gnarled and twisted and though blisters may grace the white canvas of my pampered fingers, I will scratch and claw and kick until maybe a dent presents itself to my sharp eyes. and what of warnings, and what of the lies? smiles are all that i know now.