I used to fill this room with sound so loud it would steal my hearing from my future self.
I used to to eviscerate myself of stage until my white pick guard went red and my strings began to rust.
I used to collapse, wet with sweat, hoping this spectacle would fill the cracks in my mental health with gold strong enough to hold me together a little longer. That I would be able withstand the joy and pain of life and hold all of those I loved inside me without losing a drop of them.
In this room I used to heal wounds.
In this room I inhaled black mold.
In this room I picked at scabs until they scarred.