These are a Few of my Favourite Sins

Words: Faith Thurnwald
Photographs: Faith Thurnwald

PRIDE

I’ve been called an ice queen

And I agree.

Cool, composed and crown worthy.

I know I’m royal –

A queen bee,

Honey,

Workers want to please me.

My hair crowns my head,

Looking like art.

I’m the goldy locks smith

Of your heart.

Men don’t know what they see

In me.

Can never quite name it,

Specifically.

My scent? My taste?

Something they can’t replace.

Pandora couldn’t tick –

All the boxes I do.

I’m a ten out of ten

And you’re just a two.

Wrapped up in myself,

‘Cause I’m the whole package.

And you might call me

A Narcissist,

But I don’t believe in

Self-reflection.

There’s nothing about my

Character to question.

Unless –

You don’t like perfection?

I got the body,

The beauty and the brains

And, if you’ve got

Good taste,

You’ll refrain from

Putting me in my place.

I’ve been called an ice queen,

So, I Rule thee.

In cold, calm clarity

And you worship me

Rightfully.

You either want to be with me or

Bee me.

WRATH

It only seeps out my pours,

Occasionally.

He get’s hungry and claws at my skin,

Turning my insides out.

He makes me feel alive, and I sweat to suppress him.

The shred of sanity slips through my hand –

Some days,

My tolerance is tethered,

‘Cause he’s starving.

He metastasizes as he climbs up my throat,

Purging my lungs

            I slam my jaw shut,

            Clench teeth,

            Control breathing,

            Count to ten.

I push him down and swallow him whole.

With him violence becomes a virtue

And I’ve never felt anything more pure – uncut

Than blind, hot, rage.

I’m beginning to wonder how you’d look as a blood eagle.

Ribs wrought and ripped;

Piercing the sky with the blood of my wrath.

Spine split, as your lungs drip.

The only sacrifice to my sheer delight,

God must not be home.

My mirth: ripe and raw

As I flay you alive,

Or,

Smash your skull in.

Time is ticking and I’m hanged, drawn and quartered,

Caught between the decision to explode or implode,

And, leave a pink mist in my wake.

He’s hard to control, occasionally he slips out and

I’m screaming as my heart penetrates my ribcage.

Fuck you

And,

Feel my wrath.

SLOTH

Come sit with me and we’ll settle in,

On couch cushion, get cozy and grin.

We’ll look upon the world outside,

But all its troubles and woes we won’t abide.

We’ll watch as day turns night,

Yet not get affected by the changing of the light.

Move – we will not!

Staying statue still is our lot.

We love to lay wrapped in doona; warm,

Days, gone with the wind, but we won’t conform.

Why do something today, when it can get done tomorrow?

We feel no guilt, and certainty no sorrow.

I suppose we have to order take-away,

But who will get up to pay?

We’ll squabble over this for a minute,

With you I never reach my limit.

So, I’ll get up from my comfy cocoon,

The deliveryman is coming soon.

But I’ll rush back to bed posthaste

Acting like I’m being chased.

We’ll settle in once more,

Slightly sloth, as we were before.

We still have some time till Monday,

We’re happy, slightly sloth on a Sunday.

LUST

There is a man

In my local grocery store.

He looks as though the Greek gods,

Chiseled him themselves

And, they weren’t lazy about it.

Every line; cut with precision.

The gods did not simply

Throw down a piece of clay

Not this time.

This man, he works there.

So he looks as though he belongs:

Walking with purpose,

A strong stride,

Confidence becomes perspiration, kissing the skin of his forehead,

And, I?

I come in, between life.

Sunglasses down, as I stare around,

Tired of feeding myself.

It’s always something; breakfast, lunch …dinner?

This man walks past me.

As if I wasn’t already puddling around, now I melt on the floor.

I complicate his job.

He has to go fetch a ‘caution: slippery when wet’ sign.

I stare up at him as he mops me away.

I want to wrap myself around him like a tree,

But I have to focus.

Eggs,

Bread,

Milk,

Put the bread back, I’m cutting out my carbs.

I want to lie beneath the sheets of him.

I want him to hold me, but not feel imprisoned as I usually do.

I want those arms.

But, no! I don’t want to be held tenderly.

Those arms are meant for more.

Those arms are for holding the weight of a woman,

As you lay into me – her,

Shit.

Ok,

Eggs,

Milk,

I’m lost in the aisles of you.

You’re so tall

I want to lick you and feel the flesh of your chest.

My tongue gets jealous of your well-kept uniform,

Rubbing against you.

I want to feel the weight of you.

You walk past me and I almost die,

As I’m trying to buy medication for my UTI.

I pretend not to look at the Ural,

As if he didn’t already see the huge cranberry juice in my basket.

I just want to take him home,

In my basket.

I want to check him out.

I want to tap him and my card,

On my way,

Out the door.