Wooden box with strings

I walk into 8th period with expectations as huge as the bass, feeling my heart strings being ripped from the bow. A room that once felt like music could flourish now felt like a graveyard filled with tainted notes. The cello that was once my getaway is now nothing but a wooden box I scrape daily. The air full of thick dust of rosin suffocates me as I try to keep up with the tempo, the piece leaves me blistered and frustrated towards the end. I mourn for the harmonic sounds that were once played with love not by force.