by Em Bowen
First of all, the fact that I’m even dealing with the word obsession, is stressing me out. This is not me being obsessed with my writing. This is me writing at my obsessions. Not about. At. This isn’t skimming the surface of old habits, this is going back and holding on tight.
An idea or thought that continually preoccupies or intrudes on a person’s mind.
Writing into my hard spots is making me wish I’d never made that pact with myself to stop writing about love and romance.
This was me: In the style of Miranda July’s short story “It Was Romance“— Hard Times. Love poem. Break up? Love poem. Relationship. Love poem. Real life. Love poem. Restaurant Job. Love poem. Car Breaks Down. Love Poem. Genocide. Love Poem. Queer Politics. Love Poem. Parent’s Divorce. Love Poem. Decrease in Minimum Wage. Love Poem. Sex Worker’s Rights. Love Poem. Paleo Diet. Love Poem.
At least I knew where I was headed when things went badly. Writing into my body issues, my near constant fragmentation of self, insistence towards using my mind to reason through the unreasonable is like unwinding a yarn ball that’s been sitting in an abandoned wet then dry again then wet again desert shed for 15 years. It may have at one time been your grandmother’s but nature has taken over.