On leaving house

When my olive branch was sent back to me,
It looked a lot like a middle finger,
And when I slithered out of my house,
I didn't realize how painful my body would feel now that I'd shed my skin.
I grew back a layer of something that was supposed to resemble me.
But how would I know, I never did recognize myself.
I was just looking for a soft landing.
When I stepped in dog shit, that was soft.
And looking for warmth, I kept getting burned.
Comfort took the shape of sugar and salt,
And it was my mind that never could crystalize.

I look like my mother. I hear that a lot.
But just like I never recognized our similarities in the mirror, I didn't see our twin habits coming.
Maybe I should've gotten matching linens, because I don't get out of bed either.
And our shared name is scribbled a hundred times on the ceiling that I imagine you also stare at.
I have no words- I am mute, and isn't it is mute point to even try to change.