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.