Seven Deadly Sins

I found this in the notes section of my phone, written in the wee hours of the morning. Enjoy.

My greatest sin has always been lust.
I’ve never had enough of anything to be a glutton.
I’ve never been jealous of the lives that others lead because I have a plan of my own.
I’ve never been stationary for long enough to be likened to a sloth.
I’ve never been proud. Not of myself, not of my life, not of my beginnings.
I’ve never been greedy, taking only what I need to get by.
I’ve never been overtaken with anger for longer than a day, finding myself altogether too prone to forgive.

My greatest sin is lust. I want to be wanted by a man. I want him to back me into a wall and taste me. I want him to be gentle sometimes and tease me in all the right, devilish ways, and other times, I want him to ravage me. I want to feel my muscles ache deliciously in the morning, reminding me that, just for a moment, I was the only thing he wanted


My teeth are cemented together but the breeze slides through them like a man’s fingers through his lover’s hair, begging to know her as only long-distance lovers can. The wind traces a cool finger across my skin, kissing my jumping jugular with lips that are thousands of miles away, creating in me a longing that I hadn’t known existed. Iron-clad vibrations drifting in from four sides only remind me of airplanes, and of all the places I want to go, and then of you. You as you pull me in so tightly that my breath runs and hides, chasing itself down railroad tracks that somehow pass for a spine. You as you laugh with me (such a free sound, like a song I had once known by heart but had quite forgotten until now), our backs to the frozen ground and our faces open to the sky. You: so unlike anything I have encountered in my trek through decades, yet familiar as a childhood memory glimmering behind my consciousness. It has always been the deep blue oceans that held me in place as time lapped at my shores, corroding me into someone else entirely. Who would have thought, or even guessed, that the patterns we create so independently and so full of self-purpose and preservation, were never quite so independent at all?