These are a Few of my Favourite Sins
Words: Faith Thurnwald
Photographs: Faith Thurnwald
I’ve been called an ice queen
And I agree.
Cool, composed and crown worthy.
I know I’m royal –
A queen bee,
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
Can never quite name it,
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
But I don’t believe in
There’s nothing about my
Character to question.
You don’t like perfection?
I got the body,
The beauty and the brains
And, if you’ve got
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
You either want to be with me or
It only seeps out my pours,
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 –
My tolerance is tethered,
‘Cause he’s starving.
He metastasizes as he climbs up my throat,
Purging my lungs
I slam my jaw shut,
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,
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.
Feel my wrath.
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.
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,
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.
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,
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.