Part of me is dead. She is buried six feet under with a custom-made gravestone that was copied soon after. Part of me is icy hands and pitch black and cries that will never be heard. Part of me is dead. What is it to be born for death? You knew what it felt like to be dying before you knew what it felt like to walk. You were supposed to find salvation, a life without the pain you’ve known. And now what is there for you? Still, you tried – you fought every day to be here with me. In a way,...