They say to get over someone
You’re supposed to pick up a new hobby
And apparently the most cathartic
Are the hobbies where you make something
So you bring a woodworking bench
Past the film cameras, the roller skates, the bass guitar
And hope that a new birdhouse
Will take away memories
Better than the temporary
Reprieve granted by neon flavored shots
And long legs that walk in directions
You don’t really want to go
But one birdhouse only leads to another
A gateway carpentry
And pretty soon the whole living room
Is filled with 353 birdhouses
Then you realize you don’t even like birds
Fucking feathered freaks that shit on their own food
Why do they deserve to live in such palaces
While you can barely afford a one bedroom apartment
That smells of burnt out cigarettes and stale new beginnings
In fact you hate birds
You think about taking all the houses
Outside and lighting them on fire
To be rid of the clutter
But while you’re looking for matches
You run across a keepsake that you shouldn’t still keep
And pretty soon you’re staring at a blank text message
Trying to think of the right thing to say to the wrong person
Thinking honesty is the best option
You start typing out “I mis–”
But you can’t even stand to look at the words
As if somehow seeing them makes
Them more real and you know honesty
Is only appreciated by hearts that want to beat
Not by those looking for refuge behind walls
You throw the phone across
The birdhouse mountain range
And do the only thing you know
How to do at this point
Start on number 354
###
Jessica K. Hylton writes most of her poetry while driving. She has wrecked three cars, but she finished her dissertation.
