coffee tastes better with rum, and sushi is absolutely not made for my taste buds. in other news, i turned twenty-three while back, and I have never so desperately wanted to stop growing up. the thing about having a lot of time to weep, wander and wonder is that you finally start seeing the insignificance of it all. chair is just wood. home, just a house. lover, just a person, no?

i’m slowly starting to get repulsed by emotions and now that i think of it, i’ve the emotional capacity of a spoon. i’ve never wanted to be this person and it all feels awfully strange and new, and i’m starting to acknowledge how i am an extremely difficult person to be with, and also have been trying to figure out how anyone ever really sticks around, but that sir is rocket science. this birthday someone told me i ruined their life and there was nothing i could do about it.

this birthday, i also had my sister sit in-front me with a broken wrist, asking me to forgive myself. excuse the bad writing and excuse the emotional overflow. but all i am trying to say is that i can dream of a longer, better life, but this is all we have now. beers and beaches, stained old books, well cooked lamb and the comfort of a bed and a friend.

Food/Love

my appetite expanded with him
food was his love language
the fancy juicer was witness to his impulsive, almost untameable hunger
i am not sure if I regret
how we spend hours deciding what to eat, instead of kissing each other
we made caramel pudding together
i never liked coconuts as much,
so every other day, he’d make some magically scrumptious dish with it
you can’t help but fall in love with him,
and coconuts
one morning, it rained cats and dogs, and he brought me burnt toast with cheese and pepper in abundance.
i cannot eat without thinking of him
he never knew how to knife papayas well
he discovered a french bakery for me which made delicious baked cheesecake we discovered the best momos and malai chai in Bangalore

this evening, here, miles away from where he is
i had chicken stew and it reminded me
of that night when we watched our love quietly leave the restaurant.
love must’ve died while crossing the streets. It never came back
the air is humid today and I had the most unproductive day
i am thinking how i fall on my knees, when he wakes up in the morning
we always, always ate together from his round steel plate
i never had a empty stomach
he stuffed it with equal parts love and food.

today at the grocery store, i saw apples
and jambakkas, bright, blinding red,
almost like the dying sunset of the August evening when i last saw him.

when I miss him, i sleep on the kitchen floor.

I was abandoned when I was 12

burnt garlic goes well with cheese and if you try hard enough
you can let go off your past. maybe?
men are so annoying sometimes
and then they hold your hand
and tell you that they love you.
what’s the difference between you and your shadow?
the shadow never leaves.
a tailor ruined my new pair of jeans yesterday
and i cried for thirteen minutes
until i saw two cats kissing each other down the street.
there’s no point in this life.
i know pain and grief but i also know a guy whose heart i ripped apart with my bare hands. these hands are capable of ruining kingdoms.
i could never learn how to use chopsticks
and i avoid confrontations,
life is easier without both.
extremists are the cause of one-third of my migraines.
a person i know asked me to not be a rebel. but
my body has been to war
and i only know how to battle.
there’s uncertainty from the moment i wake up.
i don’t know what to wear to work,
or who to love or what to eat.
to be, or not to be?
i don’t know if i should be a rebel for this country that’s dying a slow death or for a sweet guy’s love who makes me coffee and bread.
i’ve mastered the art of hurting everyone that comes too close to me,
my bones haven’t been loved,
don’t ask me to stay because
being abandoned is so much like running a marathon
you want to keep running but also want to win,
you want to run and you want to win.
what the fuck is this mess
i am dying for you to not go
but i’m dying to not leave you first.

confessions of a drunk sunday

i am torn between wanting to love my life
and wanting to hate it.
an obese monkey in thailand is called uncle fat.
i saw a man crying in the rain today
and i wanted to tell him that
she’ll come back.
every restaurant doesn’t serve
good ketchup.
a friend i’ve known for seventeen years
turned out to be a bully.
cheap whiskey tastes better with good company.
my lover makes cinnamon toasts
which tastes almost, almost as good as garlic mushroom.
a lesbian i met today had eyes of a guilty pleasure.
japanese people used to think earthquakes were caused by namazu, a catfish. backstreet boys sound better when i am high.
i bailed on my therapist.
being around people is excruciatingly painful, but on second thoughts, my nose piercing hurts more.
life seems different when you lose your capability to love.
marina chapman claims that monkeys raised her.
i want someone to hold my hand.
the last time i saw my best friend was five months ago.
giving up control feels horrible.
i attended a condolence meet and didn’t grieve about the dead man.
at night, my dreams take up half of the space in my bed.

the sun is out.
i should open my eyes.