The venom came with the way the sweets melted on my tongue; with the sliding of sugary juice down my throat as I watched him walk into mama’s room to conduct business that brought food on our table and made us outcasts. It was in the sweetness that settled in my stomach before turning stale as I recalled why mama had to do this. It was in these fragile canals that it paced, fermenting in harmony with the disease that ate mama’s fresh. And when papa come to mama’s funeral, It, through my arm, drove a knife into his stomach.

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