We were not twins.
We only looked alike, talked alike, had the same birthday, and dressed alike since we were 2 and 1. At 16 and 15, my mom had to bring our birth certificates to the DMV to prove that only one of us was getting our driver’s license. At 19 and 18 the birthmark on my chest proved I wasn’t the one who had raped our RA at the University. At 26 and 25 when I visited my brother in prison, I had to hum a special song in the ear of my three-year-old, so he would let my brother’s leg go and come home with me. At 30 and 29, when my brother was killed in a prison shower, I wore sunglasses to his funeral so people would stop looking at me like a ghost.
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