Love, Sushi and Other Confessions

Sushi Controversy 

coffee tastes better with rum, and sushi is absolutely not made for my taste buds. in other news, i turned twenty three a 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. 



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.


Saheen Sultana Rahman

Saheen is a writer and a communication student. She finds beauty in monotony and in run-of-the-mill things. She wants her work to be a voice of rebellion, a sword for change, a lifeboat to save someone else from drowning. She strongly believes that art exists in everything, big and small and that we only need the unavoidable and insatiable hunger to find it. Her work has been previously published in The Alipore Post, Terribly Tiny Tales, Live Wire and Indian Sahitya Akademi.


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