shayesie

My Goosebumped Skin

Too many people have been sure they love me
just for me to tell them that they’re wrong.
I don’t know what that means; it’s just
something I wrote down tonight.
And the reason that’s a bad way to start a poem is
it’s far too too abstract. It lacks a physical object
like soft, thin hairs rising along goosebumped
skin. My goosebumped skin, probably.
My goosebumped skin probably

never enters their thoughts anymore, I hope.
I hope that they’ve forgotten the ways they pop up
in surges when I laugh or shiver or think
sometimes. I hope they’ve all forgotten what it feels like
to have them show up under their fingertips
and resist the urge to laugh. Maybe there are some
who never even noticed. It’s hard to remember anymore
what we all talked about or how we talked at all.

I remember a time when I was young. I was laid down
on my bed when I saw one goosebump rise: and while
it rose, I watched the others around it surge to stand.
It’s a fascinating thing to see because
it doesn’t happen all at once. But when I noticed the one,
I could follow the wave from my wrist to the
tip of my elbow, and feel
my goosebumped skin alone.

Stay gold,
Sabrina