One of my closest male friends, honestly more like my brother, just got married.

He wants me to finally cut the crap and settle down.

I know we hear a lot of women nowadays, say that they are single by choice. I don’t want to use that language in particular, but let’s just say:

I don’t want nobody.

I enjoy dating. I enjoy getting to know new people. I enjoy sharing experiences and trying new things in life.

But I have no interest in taking on another person and their stuff.

I have been constantly and consistently the subject of men’s emotional instability and chaos. I have been constantly and consistently the receiver of men’s attempt at various points in their lives to anchor themselves. As they have been confused, or lacking, or unstable, they have clung to me.

I have been the girlfriend.

I have been the ride or die support system who kept a man together as the rest of his world constantly fell apart due to his own negligence, while never being enough to be honored, publicly, and honestly not even honored in person, but continuously expected to hold his world together, not that any of his social media fans would ever know that.

I’ve been the secret girlfriend.

I have been the arm candy that he felt he was worthy of yet so unworthy of that he constantly accused me of even so much as trying to bed his homeboys, only to keep professing his undying love for me for years after, every chance he got, despite having a girlfriend.

I’ve been obsessed over secretly for years.

I’ve been obsessed over for years and resented for it.

I’ve been obsessed over because I’m so smart.

I’ve been obsessed over because I’m so proudly Black.

I’ve been the object of desire for good Christian or good Muslim boys, or any of the other cultures, knowing good and well I’m a conjure woman and make no apologies about it.

I’ve been desired, admired and lusted after because of my eternal fire and momentum, only to be told that I move too much and too fast.

I’ve been the object of desire for men who use their own intellectualism as a crutch and otherwise struggle with intimacy and therefore felt vindicated by constantly critiquing me and everyone else in existence.

I’ve been the girlfriend who had better have her legs ready to spread at any time and better not say no. Could not say no.

I’ve been the lover for whom he insisted upon always being needed, because in other aspects of his life and whatever past relationship he felt he had no control and no power.

I’ve been the one he fell in love with and guilted into loving him back regardless to what I told him from the beginning.

I’ve been the one they clung to after whatever else or whoever else let them down, in their own mind.

I’ve kept dinner ready.

I’ve made the stews.

I’ve mixed the drinks.

I’ve soothed the nerves.

I’ve kept the house clean.

I’ve mixed the protein shakes.

I’ve planned the weekend getaways, all expense paid by me.

I’ve offered the dates.

I’ve offered to pay for the dates. I’ve offered to go dutch.

I’ve stepped back and let him pull the weight society demands he pull as a man.

I’ve not nagged.

I’ve been authentic.

I’ve been to his games.

I’ve helped him renovate his home by hand, to prepare for his incoming tenant.

I’ve followed the advice.

I’ve given the advice.

I’ve always been the ideal. I have never been myself.

I am done with that.

It’s not that I have no options. It’s not that there’s no one near me who wants to love me.

It’s not that I secretly yearn for some man to prove them all wrong.

I am not interested in being together, owned, consumed, possessed, needed, or even desired.

I am interested only in being myself.

I’m not angry. Not bitter. Just tired. I don’t have the capacity for more than me at this point in life.

I can’t say that it’s indicative of who I attract. I can’t say that it’s indicative of what I allow. I can’t say that it’s indicative of the type of men I accept. I can’t put my finger on anything in particular.

And I don’t want to. I don’t want to spend another moment unpacking it. That spiraled me down into a rabbit hole of low self esteem, beating up on myself and even starting to believe that I was not loveable. Believing that I am too much. Believing that I am not enough.

I think all of those tropes are superficial anyway… Just ways for humans to think that we individually control everything around us so that we feel better about our miniscule places in the universe.

My concentration is on living. Not making someone else hop on the train with me, or wondering or worrying who will or won’t, and how I can fix myself to be fit for someone to want to.

I’m not interested in how anyone feels about what I do, where I go, what I say, to whom, in what way, what I wear.

I’m not interested in filling some need of yours.

Keepin all my marbles to myself.