after Ryan Van Meter’s “Things I Want To Say To You On Our First Date But Won’t”

That as a small child I thought dating in high school would be unattainable—and maybe that was because my sole romantic exposure involved the novels of Jane Austen and the associated television programs, but still. That the eight-year-old version of me, bouncing off the walls, caring more about various strategy card games than her fellow humans, may have had a point. That I waited a whole year to talk to you, afraid you were out of my league, too cool for me, that I’d somehow harm you simply by wanting to be yours. That sometimes, staring at our text chain, willing myself not to say something stupid, I still wonder if you’re too cool for me or anyone. That I worried you would love me until I decided to video call you, then be revolted, throwing your phone to the ground and vowing to never date again, the sparks in your eyes dulling to faint pulsating embers once you caught a glimpse of me. That I ached for the moments you’d probably forget—the softness of your voice, a meme at 1am, a prose poem you won’t admit was about me—that I was yours before you knew I existed.

That my first girlfriend wasn’t a lesbian, but just a girl who was willing to fake it briefly so I would do her AP World History homework. (That I didn’t, because to my mind, the one thing worse than homophobia is plagiarism.) That the soft-eyed indie-pop-loving loving femme I dated in early elementary school only cared about me out of pity, pulling away when they found out I was Autistic. That before you even knew how I felt about you, you were the reason I self-diagnosed. That I knew you were a good one when you spent four hours with the DSM for my sake. That a relative of mine, the one with a tendency to be confidently inaccurate, thinks I’m like the one “ho-mo-sex-oo-all” (his mispronounced word) that he once met at work, twenty years ago, and somehow still mentions in every conversation. That little kids at the art fair my friends and I volunteer at every year sometimes ask me if I’m a boy or a girl, and then I start to feel like a haphazard painting to be bought, a malformed sculpture. That I’d much rather be your canvas, sheathed in black and grey for you to fill with screaming color, no gender but desire. That it’s awkward when the parents of five-year-olds have never met a lesbian. That homophobia used to be terrifying and now it’s a matter of course, as annoying-yet-inconsequential as the one moment on Zoom when I can’t turn my microphone on so briefly consider a vow of silence, yet as awkward as talking to my crush. That one time a few boys at my school started a prayer circle with the hope of turning me straight, and the most problematic part is, I let them.

That you’ve probably never read a novel in which a butch lesbian is anything other than a quirky side character thrown in by a straight author panicking about diversity. That I only have read such novels because of my lifelong special interest in historical feminist theory. (That I want to watch you hyperfixate on something, if only because your joy is infectious.) That if we started dating, our cis male classmates would probably think it was sexy, for all the wrong reasons. That I am trans and believe in reinvention, or at least in change—that I will yell at bullies and gently educate my relatives and stop the world for you, or at least want to. That butch/femme dynamics are just an excuse to care for one another, not like we ever needed one. That queer desire is rupture and negation, according to political theorists—and to me it is the glow of narratives woven together like a tapestry for five-year-olds to comment on.

mk zariel {it/its + masc terms} is a transmasculine neuroqueer poet, theater artist, movement journalist, and BashBack aligned anarchist. it is fueled by folk-punk, Emma Goldman, and existential dread. the author of VOIDGAZING (2026, Whittle Micropress), it can be found online at https://mkzariel.carrd.co/, creating conflictually queer-anarchic spaces, writing columns for Asymptote and the Anarchist Review of Books, and being mildly feral in the great lakes region. it is kinda gay ngl.