Walking through my mind one day I came to a sinkhole in the ground.
At the bottom sat a sickly girl, thin as bone, slick with mud, with belly starving-round.

She looked up at me at once with eyes tear-stained and crying-red,
with broken bones, and damaged limbs, and cuts slicing through her head.

Her severed hair clung in matted sheets, soaked with dirt and rain,
and she smiled at me with ghastly teeth that were yellow, sharp and stained.

“Oh, good, you’re here,” she said, and stood on mangled feet.
“It’s so dark and the walls so high. You can tell me what you see.

“What bright sign on the horizon—a knight’s shield glinting clear?
Or a figure in the swaying wheat—an adventurer coming near?

“With rope or axe or long, strong arm, one will pull me from this hole.
He’ll rescue me, he’ll save my life, and feed me til I’m full.”

“That’s the way it works,” she said, “And I cannot wait.
I’ll be his world and love him whole and have my perfect mate.”

Never had I seen her before, but I knew her just the same.
Her bruises, cuts and sores were mine; and she would answer to my name.

I suddenly recalled a dozen times when the words I’d said were hers.
A hundred little moments, ruined, going through me in a blur.

The time I was too needy, the time I was too afraid to care.
The time I pushed him away at once—before he could even dare.

I looked at her, so sick and ugly and ghostly in her deep black hole.
Skin pale; never seen the sun; a pathetic, wretched soul.

I knew the knight she imagined—he would never come.
A damsel in too much distress; the healthy heroes would run.

She’d cling to them with sickly sores and demand their curing kisses.
She’d pull them close, then push away with tears and screams and hisses.

They’d never pull her from the dirt; instead she’d suck them down into it.
Starved, thirsty, ill and injured—even the strongest couldn’t do it.

They couldn’t feed her body, or heal her wounds and tears—
For in each of their minds, too, sat a sickly boy wet with mud and fears.

“I’m awfully awkward,” she said, “And a little goofy, too.
But if I stay hidden away, maybe someone will come for you.”

She looked at me from the dark, her ill eyes narrowed keen.
“You look so very lovely,” she said. “All nice and shiny and clean.

“I can hide away in the darkness, clinging just to you,
and when he comes close to love, he’ll find I’m dangling too.

“It’ll be perfect,” she said, and clapped her hands in glee.
“He’ll fall in love with your beautiful parts, and find he’s kissing me.

“Then, I can remind him of that boy we liked, the one who called us names.
And tell him of the pretty ones who were always playing games.

“Oh! And all about that lonely one who kissed us when we cried,
who held our hand and pulled us close, and lied and lied and lied.

“I’ll whisper to him about the others who couldn’t dig me out.
I’ll be mad without good reason; I’ll cry and argue and pout.

“I’ll accuse him of wanting strangers the way he’s never wanted me,
and I’ll twist and pull and judge and doubt until he’s begging to be free.

“Then I’ll sink back in my hole so deep, so comfortable and so cold,
and dream about another man who is bright and brilliant and bold.”

I knelt in dirt and looked at her, deep in the darkest hole.
Then gazed about at the trees, the sun, the seas, there in my healing soul.

Wind blew against my skin, a cool and aching breath,
and I thought of how hard I’d worked to clear up all this mess.

The place had once been barren; a scorched and tragic land;
and I’d crawled the earth on hands and knees, repairing it by hand.

I cleared out muck and grief that was keeping rivers dammed,
and relined toxic beaches with pure and glittering sand.

I untangled knots and subconscious plots, so ivy grew green and long.
I clawed my way up mountains to clear the sky and let the wind blow strong.

I looked at her and feared her most, and felt tired and worn and sore.
I just wanted to be done and rest, and stop cleaning anymore.

Maybe she was right, I thought, and some knight would come for me.
Do the rest, fill in this hole, and carry me to my dreams.

But I felt green grass against my knees and knew it wasn’t so.
No one can heal another, and only self-sowed seeds can grow.

“No one’s coming to get you,” I whispered, “so, we should start digging you out.
There’s no hero on the horizon, no adventurer to hear us shout.”

I looked at her, feeling equal parts compassion and disgust—
and I tried to love her gruesome face, her loneliness and lust.

“No more drowning others,” I said, “just to feel more whole.
No more mouth atop a stomach, with no food that feeds our soul.

“We’re not too early or too far behind; we haven’t missed our chance.
But we can’t be content to wallow and cry when we could live and love and dance.”

“I can’t keep letting you emerge when I least expect it.
And I can’t keep letting you seep into my life to poison and infect it.”

I knew it wouldn’t be easy; she would bite and gnash and claw.
And cleaning blood and rage from cuts can make the pain so raw.

“Let’s wash your wounds,” I said, “and see what happens after
Heal your heart; fill your belly with art and friends and laughter.”

She huddled back against mud walls, eyes scared wide in her ashen face.
She glanced about her home, this repulsive and comforting place.

“But what if no one wants us?” she breathed, and I felt that fear inside.
“Then, we’ll go on,” I said, “but in the sun. There’s nothing here to hide.”

I reached down further, fingers stretching from shoulder and from spine,
then slowly, slowly, cold and boney fingers reached up to thread with mine.