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.

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