She lingers
asking to come in.
“Let me in, like a sin.”
But you don’t let her
even with her tight clothes
that don’t cover
her silky, multi-colored skin
flowing inside, her flower dress.
“Look at her. She doesn’t cost much. The first five minutes are free.”
It’s more than skin,
more than sin,
it’s your spirit
sinking in
Mixing,
with her spirit
and all the men
who said, “Let me in—it’s not a sin.”
You are a prostitute
cheaper than free
because you had to pay her
with more than just money.
Do you want
to exist
inside her hell hole
where many men have been
on Saturday nights?
Keep your spirit
within
and don’t cheapen it
lest
you regret
what you lost.
For the wages of sin
is more than death.