Moment Twenty: Punctured Balloons

I rake my eyes about the room in attempt to glean inspiration to write, an exercise suggested to me by Kitty. Recently I’ve been trawling through my tattered tome of Japanese haikus for some idea – some emotion – with no joy.

However, as I study the space intensely I notice a cluster of multi-coloured balloons climbing the corner of my desk. Kitty recommended that I store them there in case Theo comes in to play. One, baby pink, is shrivelled on the ground beneath the rest; it must have a hole in it somewhere. Theo and I keep taking it in turns to blow it up as large as we can before all the air flows out of it. So far Kit, with her Tardis-like lungs, beat us both into second and third during the one event that she competed. Imagine how enormous we could get it if we could all blow at once I wonder.

Inadvertently, I experience a sort of eureka moment – the kind that you get when inspiration strikes. The idea is a little random but I jot it down anyway:

A punctured balloon                                                                                                                          Can still be reflated if                                                                                                                You’ve got enough breath

And, together, I guess we have.

Feminine Markings

Rose, chestnut, peach, plum,

Smearing the spongy whiteness

Like paint a fresh page.

 

A.N. I wasn’t sure if this would be too controversial to post, but I decided that part of its excitement is that the aspect of womanhood that it depicts is one not (certainly by myself) come across too often in literature; I really enjoyed writing it because of this uniqueness and the dynamic perspective that it gave me on quite a mundane event. Haikus are amongst my favourite poetic forms because they have such simple rules, yet these same rules embellish what may be, like Feminine Markings, a single sentence.

Trapped

I, snarled in thick limbs,

Cried myself to sleep last night.

Can you see the salt?

 

A.N. The story behind this haiku is greatly personal, but I would like to share it on here as both an explanation of the words, and a record for myself. I composed it as I fell asleep the day my psychologist had told me that I would have to keep gaining weight to be at a lower risk of relapse despite being a ‘healthy’ weight, albeit at the very bottom of the range. I must have known, deep down, that this would happen, but I held out hope, and even tried to argue against it. That night, hyperaware of the extra fat my body had accumulated, I broke down. That’s what EDs do to you, I realise: make it seem like a couple of numbers on a scale and vital body fat are the end of the world.