THE WAGES OF SIN (THE SIDE CHICK)

The wages of sin is death,

But I’m not here to preach.

I’m down for every second,

Every moment he strides in,

Every added time, every extended stay,

I’m aware I’m living a lie,

He’s aware I’m aware,

I smile to that,

As I’m adamant on leaving the lie.

I persist, I thrive, I crave, I yearn, I need,

I get high, on the sound of his footsteps,

Clinging desperately to the air that carries his cologne.

But he comes in through the back door,

Since my neighbour’s cars are complete in the drive way.

And the air flies rumors on first class.

His Display Pictures give me signs;

When his tie is red in the picture,

I know I’ll have him for that night.

The wages of sin is death,

But I’m not here to preach.

He fondles with my hair

Those things girls like,

He calls me Liquor,

That name has its history.

We are a secret,

We live like ghosts,

We are night crawlers,

Amongst shadows and hidden places.

He’s tells me things,

None other knows,

Like the incident with the bank manager,

The blackmail, the blood, the money.

The wages of sin is death,

But I’m not here to preach.

His tie is red today,

So I’m seated in the living room,

With that dress he likes,

And an opened Vaseline tube.

I await the creak of the back door,

I await the ruffling of clothes,

The running bath,

The Liquor.

The wages of sin is death,

But I’m not here to preach.

I wonder futilely,

How he buttresses his excuses for returning late.

She’s carrying his third child,

She flexes his gold band,

Like she did that day at the Liquor store.

While I’m just his side chick.

I’m the wages of her past sins.

About to be paid with the wages of my current sins.

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