MADE FOR BLOOD

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

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