What Wouldn’t Fill

We tried filling it with water, but the ground just soaked it up.

We tried burying it with dirt, but the rain washed it away.

I tried filling it with love, giving it hugs, telling it stories about how it’s enough.

I threw books in it, wrote poetry, read it Bible verses.

I got angry at times, walked away and cursed it.

I screamed into its void, begged it to fill up.

Finally, I stood inside the hole and declared I’d had enough.

Sat down and lit one up. Why are you this endless pit, impossible to fill, impossible to kill?

Don’t you want to grow something? You’re endlessly deep.

To my surprise, it responded,

“I am a hole. That’s all I’ll ever be.

I’ve lived my whole life this way, I won’t change to make you happy.

The dirt beside me, covered in grass, you’ve never met that land, just walked over it and looked past. Maybe I’m a hole because I enjoy being seen. Maybe I’m a hole because that’s just me.”

I silently cried and hugged the ground.

Finally, I let out this long sigh and left.

One day I came back, and the hole was filled.

It looked like all the other grass.

It never opened up to me again.