Mr. Blog/Brave and Reckless
The night I was murdered was when we first met.
You, 16, a junior in high school.
Me, 19, on the verge of adulthood.
You were in your home, readying for bed.
I was next door, in the front yard, pleading with my ex for my birth certificate.
I needed it to start college the next day.
It was the only proof I had that I was more than breath and bones; somehow, he snagged it in our split.
You never heard our breaths colliding in the heat of summer night.
Words tangling too long, he’d had enough.
Turning on his heels, he marched into his home, slamming the door in my face.
The determined woman I was becoming stormed through the yard, straight to the door because I needed, wanted my birth certificate.
It proved I existed.
My next move caused my death.
Granted me another certificate, eliminating my…
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