Because she spun a downy web
in the corner of my bedroom
and sat patiently unperturbed.
Because it counted as saying it aloud to
a living being, a body of matter and feeling,
even if the words were for myself, sticky
strings pulled from my lips in which
I’ll always have to make my home.
Because I could practice stuttering beneath
the stare of eight eyes at once.
Because she wasn’t Charlotte, and I
would not wake up to “Some Homo”
or “Fruity” written in her web.
Because she had seen all the evidence:
my sister’s boy band issues of Teen People
smuggled into my bedroom, the night tremors
mumblings of Dylan, Trevor, Kevin
in the desiring vocabulary of sleep.
Because I am still afraid of spiders
and could pretend it was her that I feared.
Because I could smash the witness
with a newspaper, smear the blame across
the wall, and wash myself in the cleansing blood
of the clorox bottle.