ABOUT THE POEM: The speaker articulates a profound sense of isolation resulting from chronic romantic rejection. They attribute this to a lack of social "currency" and emotional intelligence, contrasting their raw human pain with the "mechanical" dismissal of others. Despite claiming resilience and character, they feel "personally hated by the universe," trapped in a cycle where deep desire meets constant loss. Ultimately, they view their solitude as a destiny of "wrecked luck" rather than a solvable puzzle.Should I lie and say something else?
What have I actually observed in this world?
I witnessed every woman I met choose someone-anyone-but never me.
Should I pretend they rejected me because there’s some fundamental flaw in me?
If my heart is not able to feel love at all,
or the thing in my heart is not love at all?
What am I supposed to make of every damned instance?
I didn’t have the currency that works in this worldly-wise world.
Every time, I lacked the understanding to know them
and the ability to express what I wanted from them.
My response was human.
Theirs was, too often, mechanical.
And the pain lives exactly in that gap.
They came, they saw, they rejected, and they left-
leaving me with the same line every time: “I’m not interested.”
As if I’m some random agent asking Jennifer Lopez
to insure her booty through me.
As if I’d asked for something outrageous, absurd, or beneath them.
In the end, I convinced myself they were all wrong-
that they were transactional,
and I never learned how to bargain like a wiser customer.
I know blame is a cheap bandage,
but when you’ve lived with the wound long enough,
you figure out a few things.
And I still lack emotional intelligence,
because I never had anyone to teach me
or anyone to practise with to develop it.
I have no followers on Twitter, no likes on Instagram.
I don’t own a pet, a plant, not even a housefly.
So where exactly am I supposed to order a girlfriend from-
as if she’s takeout?
Whether woman or man, everything people gain or lose
comes from a twist of intent and a streak of luck.
How much I loved her-meaning evaporated; only the tease remained.
The search for love vanished into thin air,
and only the gravity of losses stayed.
The saliva of my tongue can’t lick the salt
from the pink skin of those curves
when no one is around.
Truth is, I’m foolish enough to keep everything buried,
stumbling forward in the dark
and calling my wrecked luck “destiny.”
Skin gives birth to desire; art shapes thought,
and from that, action grows.
The World Cup title for losing everything belongs to me,
and so does the stubbornness to stand up after each fall.
But if nothing matters more than character,
why don’t I ever win?
That’s what it feels like
to be personally hated by the universe.
