Is love beautiful and soft?  
That’s what I’ve been told.  

But I’ve never seen love that way.  
She’s bold, overreaching—she fights  
For herself.  
For others.  

Love is not just the soft goodnight kiss from your mother,  
The warm embrace of a childhood friend,  
The laughter shared under the stars with a lover.  

Love is the mother lion  
Willing to lay down her life for her cubs.  
It’s the moms starving tonight  
So their children have food to eat.  
It’s my grandma, who can’t afford me,  
But keeps me anyway.  

What if love isn’t just about what we give,  
But what we’re willing to sacrifice?  

Would you sacrifice your life for me,  
Like the mother lion?  
Could you go without dinner  
So I could eat?  
Will you move the world for me?  
Do you really love me?  

What if love is supposed to be gentle and sweet,  
But this world wasn’t made for sweet things?  
They always seem to spoil and rot.  
The once-sweet orange on the tree,  
Now rotting on the ground.  
My sweet grandma, too sweet to be,  
Stolen from me.  

So love has become:  
Will you eat me,  
Or will you be eaten for me?  

Is that what we’ve done—  
Taken something so beautiful  
And stripped it of its beauty,  
Because we think  
That’s what must be done?  

Would you bake a cake for me?  
Could you dare to stay up all night  
Contemplating God with me?  
Will you cut fresh flowers for me?  
Plant a garden for me?  
Would you walk hand in hand through that garden with me?  
Could you endure the hungry nights  
So our kids can eat?  
Would you stay by my side  
After my grandma died?  
Will you still be there  
When my mind finally breaks  
And the pieces scatter?  
Can you stay long enough  
To watch me rebuild?  
Or will the scatter  
Be our final matter?  

What if it’s both—  
The soft and tender love,  
The sacrifice and hurt?  

Love is tender.  
The fight to keep it  
Is violent.  
Or does it have to be?  
Should I have to ask if you would rot for me?  
Leave yourself for me?
Can love actually demand these?

Maybe love is found in the in-between,  
Between the violent hold to keep it  
And the willingness to let go.  
Or will this sweet orange  
Rot under a tree,  
before we reach spring?