Matt Desmond

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His screams echoed inside my chest, begging to be heard, begging to be seen. But I had stopped pondering that sinister face in the mirror years ago. I had never liked what I saw in those wretched eyes. And the more I had ignored him, the more daunting his image had become. His lips, once red with scarlet youth, now curled at the edge of his mouth like a dead branch on a tree. His warm Ivory skin had turned gray and lifeless. And the bags. The deep black bags that hung under his eyes like limp corpses, god, I could never forget. A disturbed visage. Like a man living among the dead, or a dead one among the living. As time went on, he became impossible to ignore. He was a spirit of affliction looking for outlet and relief. His voice became thunderous. His grip, Herculean. His will, inevitable. And no longer able to resist, with death on the horizon, I was forced turn and face him. To know the truth of his plight. So I sat down in front of the mirror and I sang the songs he told me to sing.