I reach out a branch in peace,
yet the concrete wall stays despite my pleas.
I ask for respite, but my sneering voice renders me spineless.
I knock and push and pull for any response,
but she turns her cheek and I can feel no warmth.
I'm told she's my home, my place to return when I have nowhere to go:
but she directs her eyes away from mine and I don't remember the last time I looked into hers.
Disapproval brims at worn and wrinkled edges -
I don't know if it's a wrongful imagination on my part
or if it's the underlying feelings that she can't bring herself to say.
If it's PMS, then I might need medication.
If it's reality, then I need to run.
I'm too weak to not run.