ABOUT THE POEM: This piece reflects the life of a man who spent more than two decades carrying responsibilities that left little room for emotional growth or intimate connection. From childhood onward, he dedicated himself to study and later to repaying family obligations, sacrificing his youth to duty and survival rather than desire or self-development. He earned a significant amount through hard work, but the emotional cost was enormous: he never formed romantic relationships, never learned how to express himself, and lived without companionship of any kind. His attempts at fulfilling traditional expectations failed to give him the tools he needed to build a personal life. In loneliness and isolation, he occasionally sought intimacy through sex work—not out of indulgence, but as a means to feel human for brief moments. Society’s judgement only deepened his sense of alienation. Eventually, the pressure of survival, shame, and exhaustion pushed him into a rehab centre at 39. After nearly two years inside, he returned to find his earlier earnings gone and his life reduced to borrowing money. The text is a stark exploration of solitude, survival, and the emotional consequences of a life spent meeting obligations instead of building connections.From age 21 to 33 – twelve long years – I kept my body and my heart locked away from any woman. I didn’t touch a single girl for twelve years.
Now, at 42, I still have no girlfriend, no hand to hold, no voice that calls me hers – never had.
I didn’t finish my degree, and I carried the debt of my parents’ favours – debts I had to repay, along with the blame of running away from my obligations.
Still, I earned about 300,000 dollars in that time, without anyone investing a dime in me.
Childhood vanished into studying for a future I never reached, and most of my youth burned up fulfilling duties that never fed my soul.
I walked away from my studies because they no longer served my purpose – books couldn’t give me the emotional intelligence I needed to talk to a girl, to express myself, to be human in the ways that matter.
Sometimes I visit a sex worker.
When people find out, their eyebrows rise, their tongues sharpen.
I feel the silent verdict hanging in the air.
But I refuse to justify myself to them.
The universe itself has no claim over my choices – only I carry the weight of this thirst.
No god, no society, no stranger earns the right to interrogate how I keep myself alive.
They have wives, lovers, children, friends –
someone to kiss goodnight, someone who waits for their touch.
All they need is permission to be tender.
I have no one.
No dog, no cat,
no wife, no children,
no mother, no sister,
no brother, no friend,
no girlfriend, no lover, no mistress,
no father, no god,
no one ahead of me, no one behind,
no one above, no one below.
I have no one,
none at all.
I beg the night for love, and the night stays mute.
My heart is not just dry – it is ash, black, weightless, still warm from the fire that never quite went out.
So yes, sometimes I pay for an hour of skin, of breath against my neck, of eyes that pretend I am not alone.
It is not nobility. It is survival.
And if that offends the well-watered gardens of their perfect lives,
let them water their own grass and leave my desert in peace.
After doing this and many other mother-fucking things, I ended up in a rehab centre at the age of 39.
When I walked out after seven hundred and fifty-eight days, I returned to a life built on borrowed money.
My parents had eaten the money I made from the business, and whatever was left turned to ruins while I was locked away in rehab.
