I wake up at 7:45 and imagine how I would feel about a woman sitting on my face and decide then and there that there has to be a better way to determine my sexuality. As an abstract fantasy and tangibly there is no gender that I want to see looking down at me before I eat my oatmeal. At night I find lesbian porn that for once doesn’t feel like straight women kissing. Like my queer feelings, the porn was always there and I just had to look for it. My therapist tries to tell me that I don’t need to figure out my sexuality and that will I ever really know? I know that the correct response is obviously doctor you’ve never been a [23] year old girl [who feels imposter syndrome about wanting to kiss women.] I say nothing. I worry that I’m not ““bisexual enough”” (?) until I run out of energy to care about labels. As someone who tries to avoid appropriating experiences that aren’t mine I sure do diagnose myself with extraneous conditions. One day I will be the bisexual girl who cried illness. Until then I am just bisexual and for once not crying.

Lucia Gallipoli is an undergraduate student concentrating in sexuality, love, and art. She is probably lost somewhere in the cycle of worshipping Mitski and Kate Bush via Spotify and forgetting that they exist for a few weeks. Her book reviews can be found on Instagram @TenderPages.