Starfucker

I wish I knew about queer sex when we were in love.

I wish we awkwardly contorted our bodies into blasphemous geometries, instead of infrequently taking you on a dissociated mission trip.

I wish that before my deflowering we took the time to explain our bodies’ rewiring; had the “this is that” and “do this but not that”, and “call this that but not this” conversation.

I wish I had asked your big three before we fucked — just to warn you of my Mars in Sagittarius — to give you the opportunity to ghost me before our first time.

I wish I had continued to ask for consent, repeatedly and poetically.

I wish we could have both sensed the palpability of our yearning for phantom appendages and designer fuck holes.

I wish we could have sniffed vinyl cleaner out of tiny bottles with three less houses in Scorpio than I, to allow me to pretend I was born in the right body.

I wish I hadn’t unfairly kissed you in the rain and told you I’d marry you one day because I fucking hate marriage and I think you do too.

I wish I could have been honest with you that I never wanted to fuck, because I was fucking wrong, and it was fucking hard to figure out why.

I love that you found your queerness as I did, eventually, and blossomed into yourself so others could come into theirs.