Are You Lonesome Tonight?

I tie my hair up high for God,
red lips and no blusher,
long lacy skirt, lacy veil across my sinful shoulders as I creep into his arms,
just the way he likes me,
crying in the chapel,
chapping on a priest’s peaceful door to ask if he can help me find forgiveness,
but he never seems to answer.

I am a bride of the Lord,
ever loving but so unfaithful,
the weak rib of an old man who never gave up but always gives in,
because I look so beautiful when I cry,
long lashes with lakes of mascara,
constantly crying in his tired arms when the day ends and I’ve done it again.

He brings me tissues,
to the empty, echoing chapel,
a glass of wine and his son’s skin to keep me warm and fed,
though I treat him like a fool,
never wearing his ring on my finger or around my neck,
finding such sweetness in his suspicions.

When I am gone,
gallivanting and disappointing him,
I can hear his mourning weeping from miles away.
There he is, as I am, when I return in disgrace,
crying in the chapel,
waiting for me to want to be true,
knowing I never could,
but washing his face with blessed water and being by the door when I return,
because I am a sick kind of addictive,
and the most powerful are always the first to be corrupted.

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