I cannot tell if we are falling out of love
with each other, or, if this is the love
they warned us of: the love that doesn’t
trim its grievances into neat, pleasing
bushes but instead grows itself wild
as the jaguar—raised in captivity—will
realize one day it too is made for blood.
The love that will hack up the wet,
pink carcass of an argument months after
its neck was snapped and swallowed.
The petty love. The selfish love. The love
that will stop apologizing and start
admitting to Sundays spent masturbating
to the thought of other men’s fingers,
the way her head tilts back as she laughs.
– Sierra DeMulder
aaaaaaand … i’m back! lord, i need poetry to make life make sense.
lately, i’ve been accused of being mean and awful by one person and naive and over-optimistic by another. both piss me off to no end. don’t ever trivialize another human being to such simplicity. we are difficult, hopeful, potential filled, selfish, grieving, desperate for understanding, beautiful people. each of us. reaching for grace at our best. shutting down love from defensiveness at our worst. stop it, i tell you. be vulnerable. love matter. know why, or at least ask over and over and over. spill your guts and then clean up. accusing anyone for being more anything than you is self-destructive. reach, darling. keep reaching.