On Starting Over

Anna Snider

Writing poetry in coffeeshops, spontaneous road trips with no destination in mind, loving myself more— this poem was going to be about resolution. Was going to name hope the placeholder between each word, reeking of redemption and forgiveness and starting over. Was going to highlight all of the ways that I planned to be better this year.

Like maybe if I follow this blueprint I will really be happy this time. Maybe I will become who I’ve always wanted to be:

The girl who knows how to navigate through a hallway without mistaking it for a forest. Whose skin seems to fit in all the right places instead of growing claustrophobic from the emptiness bursting at the seams. Maybe this year I will finally become that person.

But you see, I’ve never been very good at beginnings.

There’s too much fumbling around in the dark for these shaking hands to draw anything beautiful. Too many ways I could fill in a blank page that I never end up deciding. There’s too many unpredictable paths that first conversation could lead down, that I never commit to a direction to walk in.

& you see, I have a bad habit of shrinking into myself. Of waiting for somebody else to answer the question because I know my voice will come out shaking. Of not showing anybody anything less than a final draft. Of never walking away in the middle of a painting, even if it supposed to take weeks to finish, even if there are supposed to be hours between the different layers. Have a bad habit of breaking myself in half before allowing myself to make a mistake.

& sometimes I wish I would break into something beautiful, like ice washing up to the shore, like rain pouring out of the sky, like paint filled balloons exploding onto an empty canvas.

& sometimes I wish that I could learn to see my life in paragraphs, to be able to step back and witness how all the different pieces weave themselves together. Sometimes I wish that I could learn how to see myself in drafts because how much easier would it be to put the first word on the paper if it didn’t have to be a final draft the first time through?

& how much easier could it be to firework-out instead of crumbled-building-in? How much lovelier could I be by learning to shatter myself into raindrops while falling down and kissing the trees while evaporating my way back up? What else could be possible if I dared to take a step even if I don’t know where I’m going? What else could exist beyond these crumbling walls?

Writing poetry in coffeeshops, spontaneous road trips with no destination in mind, loving myself more— this poem is not about resolution. This poem is about starting over.