I murdered you, simply because
of the red fiddle on your back
and because I could, though
we stood under the same blistering sun

had you not made such a tangled web
I would have not known you were there

perhaps then, your sin was the same as mine
weaving words like webs, leaving them there
for all to see, and discover the spindling me
before they decide my fate, like I did yours
with the heel of my shoe