The Queerest Song Isn’t About Being Gay — It Just Sounds Like Longing

A breakdown of the songs that cracked our hearts open before we even knew why

There’s a particular ache queer people know intimately — not just heartbreak, but longing. That suspended, slow-motion kind of yearning. Wanting someone who can’t want you back. Or wanting to be someone else entirely. Or wanting to be seen so completely that someone might actually stay.

Before we had the language — before we came out, or even in — we had music. Specifically, songs that weren’t technically about us but felt like they were carved from our bones.

They weren’t “queer anthems.” They were something softer. Sadder. Sexier. Songs that sound like staring out a rainy window with the kind of ache you can’t fully name.

Here’s a breakdown of the tracks that hit us in the chest and whispered, This is who you are. Even if you don’t know it yet.

Florence + the Machine – "Cosmic Love"

“The stars, the moon, they have all been blown out / You left me in the dark.”

Florence Welch doesn’t sing — she summons. Cosmic Love isn’t about a break-up, it’s about obliteration. The kind of love that leaves you ruined and radiant. Queer people heard this in their teens and suddenly wanted to run barefoot into the ocean at midnight in a long, dramatic coat.

This isn’t just longing. It’s apocalyptic devotion. It’s please ruin me, I want to be yours completely. And that’s very, very gay.

Frank Ocean – "Bad Religion"

“If it brings me to my knees, it’s a bad religion / This unrequited love...”

This is a queer song, but it never shouts it. Frank Ocean mumbles it into the backseat of a taxi, half-confessing his love to someone who can’t love him back. It’s gentle. Brutal. Holy.

The way he sings “I could never make him love me” broke something in all of us. Not just because of the him — but because of the never.

Lorde – "Supercut"

“In my head, I do everything right.”

This is the ultimate queer spiral song. The imagined relationship. The internalized movie montage. The obsessive rerun of a version of events where you actually got what you wanted.

It’s about being in love with a ghost version of someone — and maybe, also, a ghost version of yourself. The one who was brave enough to say it, or kiss them, or stay.

Phoebe Bridgers – "Savior Complex"

“I’m a bad liar / With a savior complex.”

Phoebe’s entire discography could soundtrack a sad queer coming-of-age film that ends with the main character crying on public transport. But Savior Complex hits particularly hard for anyone who’s tried to fix someone instead of just loving them.

It’s about tenderness turned toxic. Love offered like a bandaid for someone else’s bleeding, even while you’re bleeding too. Which is to say: it’s queer as hell.

Robyn – "Dancing On My Own"

“I’m right over here / Why can’t you see me?”

We danced to this in clubs with mascara in our eyes. We screamed it into mirrors. We collapsed into hugs when the beat dropped like heartbreak in disguise.

No one captures the humiliation of being overlooked while watching the one you want want someone else like Robyn. This is the song of the queer observer. The side character. The ghost at the party.

It’s not even subtle. But it’s perfect.

More Songs That Were Accidentally Queer (Emotionally, Spiritually, Sonically)

  • "White Flag" – Dido

  • "Back to Black" – Amy Winehouse

  • "The Night We Met" – Lord Huron

  • "Two Weeks" – FKA Twigs

  • "Liability" – Lorde

  • "Creep" – Radiohead (the ultimate transmasc karaoke moment)

  • "Fast Car" – Tracy Chapman

  • "Cellophane" – FKA Twigs

  • "Someone Like You" – Adele (closeted anthem)

  • "Norman Fucking Rockwell" – Lana Del Rey (being in love with someone who hates themselves? yeah.)

Because It Was Never Just About Love

The queerest songs aren’t always about kissing girls or holding boys’ hands. Sometimes they’re about displacement, obsession, melancholy, or being stuck on the outside of someone else’s story.

Sometimes they’re about wanting to be seen. Or wanting to disappear completely. Or wanting the kind of intimacy you were told wasn’t yours to want.

They’re not Pride playlist bangers. They’re soft devastations you return to at 2am, half-drunk and fully exposed. They make you cry, and then keep playing, and then cry again. And you don’t skip them. Because they feel like you.

Even when you didn’t know who “you” was yet.

If you like your algorithms queer and your nostalgia a little pixelated, follow @glitchesinthegaydar.

Reply

or to participate.