I’m In Love With Being Alone

My mother listens as I regurgitate the same lines. I tell her it’s not that I’m lonely, not really. I scroll through my phone and think of texting different ones. But I never really do. And I want her to explain what’s wrong with me. Because so many men, so many people, so many wonderful opportunities to love and learn. And I don’t want any of them.

I’m howling at the moon when she appears, enjoying the sound of my own voice. I like retiring to my den, alone. My bed is all mine and my heart is, too.

But I’m asking her if it’s wrong.

“But Mama, I’m afraid it’s just me. It’s me and I’m trying so hard to not admit it. I’m drinking too much and laughing loudly to cover my emptiness. But Mama, it’s getting harder at night.

Because, Mama, he kisses me with both hands on my face and asks how you are. He tells me stories when I’m feeling sick and knows all the words to my favorite song.

Mama, he’s everything I’m supposed to want.

But what if I still don’t?”

So I summon the strength and I say, “I tried. I really did.”

I go on the date. I give it a chance. I remember being so in love, once. Twice. It seems like a different person. Maybe I can’t get there again.

I keep wanting to want someone. I keep wanting to want them. But I can’t seem to get there. Right now, I just want me.

Is that wrong?