A prose poem I wrote last year for an English class

"O music, come to me. Under the bed, behind the shower curtain, under the sink. Around the pipes hidden in the ceiling, smelling of stale water and mold. Let me hear you ring your haunting tones, stalking my dreams and nightmares. Slick fingers in the dark waiting to grab the child sleeping on their mattress. O music, let me hear you sing! Empty corridors echoing a tune, bacteria growing on the cold concrete floors. The loud flush of a toilet, the trickle of a leaky faucet. My eyes are wide open waiting for you. I am aching to hear your melodies one more time, all lost to childhood, like the tarnished memories of needles, scalpels, giant humming machines, and so many tubes everywhere. O music, accept me into your arms, wet and decaying, hands bleeding the secrets that linger within me. I sing your song, my voice mediocre compared to your effortless screams. O music, O song, O beautiful death of innocence, I call you to me to sing me one last melody. I have changed like the wrinkles of old age, the remodel of an old house, the aging and rebirthing of technology. But, alas, I am still here—still the same, with unchanging fears and instincts. I fear you and I love you. O music, come to me."

This reflects some of my childhood traumas that fueled phobias that I've only recently begun to address.