A sexless life is like a bird with broken wings – grounded, gutted, gasping for the sky it will never touch again.

Sure, it will live. But what is survival without freedom? What is existence without flight, without the reckless thrill of the wind ripping through its feathers, without the limitless stretch of open air? It will watch others rise, twisting through the clouds, reveling in what it can never reclaim. It will stay earthbound, mocked by memories of what once was, tormented by the bitter truth that sex was never truly its own – just a fleeting illusion, a cruel loan with interest paid in loneliness.

I was made for sex – an undeniable part of who I am – meant to pour out of me freely, to consume me entirely, to ignite me in its raw intensity.

But without a companion, without someone to reflect that sexuality back at me, I am that ruined bird – trapped beneath a sky that turned its back, abandoned by hope, sentenced to suffocate under the weight of something I will never have again.