This sucks

My therapist said to write about other things too. She must not be a poet, but I see what she means. The healthy vs digging nature of obsession. How can I not write about something I think about every day most of the day? That’s probably not healthy either.
I’m at work right now under false lights. It’s pitch black outside inside is a sterile twilight. I should cut my fingernails, I should floss, I should get my filling fixed before I run out of insurance.
Normally, now, I’d be under a fleece blanket on the couch, sometimes the gym – certainly not in front of a computer. I’m getting very very sleepy.

I’m wondering what attracts me to certain relationships. This is the second female one botched to hell – I could say they weren’t my fault, that I was the one thrown away like garbage, but that’s only partially true. I was always the one who couldn’t let go. I give too much of myself. I’m learning how to be someone’s void. I dreamed of a door about a week ago. Chicken scratch was written on the old wood, but the only thing I could make out, lit up on white paper and bracketed like the labels on a filing cabinet, was one word: AGAIN.