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?

I wanted to cry
As I saw my mom’s mug—
Broken.

She was so sad,
So she fixed it.
It was a mug from Italy,
I brought it to her
as a souvenir once.  

She was so sad,
As if she brought it
herself,
She lingered.

I wanted to cry
As  I realised—
She got to see
Some places
Only through my eyes.

I wished,
I hoped,
Someday I can
Carry her with me
To every place she ever dreams.

Please don’t arouse
my anger
I don’t know
what I’ll do
If you threaten
My children
I might
Decapitate you

Please don’t arouse
My anger
Stay on
my Good side
Friend
If you arouse
My anger
It may mean
Your end

There are dreams I’ve folded, tucked away tight,
Like old forgotten clothes, out of mind, out of sight.
One dream is my family, proud, happy, and strong,
But in truth, they’re splintered, fighting who’s right, who’s wrong.

Another was of healing, of wearing a vet’s coat,
Or moving the masses with the words that I wrote.
Helping the helpless, animals small and in need,
A life lived in service, a world I could lead.

I dreamt of a wedding, a dress pure as snow,
Walking the aisle, to see your smile’s glow.
I dreamt of a farm, vast and self-sustained,
With crops that thrive and animals well-trained.

But the dream I can’t fold, the one that won’t fade,
Is the thought of a child, a love never swayed.
It’s wrapping gifts from “Santa” late Christmas Eve,
It’s seeing you hold them, as they sleep and believe.

It’s watching them grow, teaching what’s right,
Helping them learn from what keeps them up at night.
This dream, I hold close, though I dare not say,
It lingers with me, every step, every day.

I don’t ask for this dream, nor expect it to be,
But it clings to my heart, a part of me.
Folded, yet vivid, it whispers, not yet,
For some dreams stay alive, though they’re placed in regret.

Boxes became my constant companions,
each house a temporary heartbeat.
I built homes with one hand holding a child,
the other gripping resilience.

At nineteen, I became a mother,
a title that shook the stars—
barely an adult, but now a world-builder,
my dreams reshaped by tiny hands.

At the window sill I sit to weep my sorrows
Ugly birds join in on my grief
Their hard caws echo my sorry cries
In mourning I have become a bird as unsightly
As grieving crows in barren trees

Why might I weep a loss not lived?
A child's tears I stopped from spilling
Caw ugly birds, for your sorrows
So I might join your wretched song
To pour my troubles to cold skies

Hands made to hold the world, cannot hold a wide-eyed child
Foul cries, like ugly caws, do not comfort
Wipe your eyes youngling, you will never have to caw to the skies
Stop weeping creature, thought you might only cradle dreams
Leave the birds to weep for you

The path of life I once beheld,
Until I agreed to be born into this world,
I knew the reason without a doubt—
You, destined to be my mother.

In a world of right and wrong, painted gray,
Your color shines as white to me
In another life with or without choice,
I choose you.

The greatest pain
I have ever known
is the pain of motherhood

When my Sunshine is crying
and there’s nothing I can do,
or worse,
because of what I’ve done,
it feels unbearable,
and yet

my mother
and all mothers before her
bore this pain.

Motherhood begins with pain,
and lives alongside it.

Is such a dark foil necessary
to appreciate its joys?
I think not...
There is nothing brighter
than my Sunshine’s laughter.

But then again,
I’ll never know.
I’ve only ever seen their brilliance
set against this darkness.