Content warning: dysphoria.

Andy, Andromeda

For a name I used to use

They draw me in, draped in the cosmos. I follow
to the edge of the sea, two paces behind their perverse unknown.
Don’t touch the starspray on their arms. It tingles on my hands. They swallow
seafoam- it spirals in their blackhole body. Our pinkies brush, our eyes don’t. 

I see them through my bedroom window, smudged in the sky.
They press my chest to theirs and unmake me with teeth to poke at
the twin under my skin. I have no words to give back, no name, I try 
on their smile, it pulls, is it supposed to do that?

Breathless wonder of starry eyes dissolves into screens
of names and numbers. Scientists capture, tag, and release 
the empty feeling. It fills my bedroom. Seeps into my genes. 
Is this who I will be? Blue screen death gives no sense of peace. 

But peace isn’t for us. No goddex will kiss answers to my ear.
Oceans and names and blackholes: unknown. Though a name is a yoke
and a souvenir (from a galaxy gift shop or pawned on the internet). Hear 
the indifference and hold the name close. I finally know the inside joke.

About the author

Jos Glencross is a queer writer, from Meanjin (Brisbane), Australia. They love to play with words and aim to adopt several dozen cats throughout their lifetime. Their work is published or forthcoming in a range of journals and magazines including Aniko Press, Blue Bottle Journal, MIDLVLMAG and Urinal Mag. You can find them lurking on instagram @jd.glenx

Photo by thiago japyassu on Unsplash.