NOTHING

​

You turn to me, afterwards, and say

“I wish things like that happened to me.”

I am trembling.

I don’t know how to tell you

How much your wish hurts

More than the jagged edges

Of the bricks at my back

And the rough shoving

Of his fingers inside me.

“People never look at me with desire.”

Is that what you call it?

These thefts of my person

Small nothings to men and women

Who insist on their presence

Like a rushing river

Washing pieces of me away.

I do not feel desired.

I do not even feel seen.

I am nothing to them,

Not a prize to be won

Or a displayed ornament.

I am nothing.

And I cannot understand

How you wish to be nothing too.

Jenny O'Gorman is a bisexual writer of fiction, poetry and personal essays. She is an avid bibliophile and enjoys jigsaw puzzles, learning about human nature and baking cakes (hers always taste better than they look). She lives in Gloucester, UK, with her partner and their stone cat. Her work can also be found in Sonder Magazine, From Whispers To Roars, and Neonbeam Magazine.