Senses & Sins

Associating senses & sins, and some photos of me as Mia Wallace for Halloween:

Sloth.

Sloth smells like stale potato chips.
Sloth tastes like luke-warm, backwashed, Sprite, without the carbonation.
Sloth sounds like white noise and rusty bedsprings.

Gluttony.

Gluttony smells like bloody hamburgers. . . and ToysRus
Gluttony looks like white people - a whole sea of white people - on hoverboards, listening to Kanye and slapping each other’s asses.
Gluttony sounds like another sloppy handjob.

Rage.

Rage smells like gasoline and cat piss.
Rage tastes like burnt dinner, or no dinner, crackers for dinner, “where’d mom go? I heard screaming”.
Rage feels like acupuncture, except with thick nails while little “ADHD” boys have hammers, too many pills, and not enough company.
Rage looks like burning houses and stab wounds, and almost every face I’ve seen on the morning news - except for the little brother from the boston bombings. . . his face looked different, to me.
Rage sounds like firecrackers and bloody throats creaking, “I FUCKING HATE YOU”, and shattered picture frames and door frames and bones. Tiles breaking in the kitchen and a whole lotta nothing, for a while.

Pride.

Pride smells like coconut butter. . . in a bad way.
Pride tastes like tortured goose liver. . . and really good Burgundy. . . “From France”
Pride looks like full body jumpers - with side boob.
Pride sounds like monkey’s fucking each other and Donald Trump speaking to little girls about their futures.

Lust.

Lust smells like: sneaking through my big sister’s bedroom at 14 to steal “Versace: Bright Crystal”, and wearing it for my “boyfriend” the night I learned how to “blow-job”.
Lust tastes like saline solution and strawberries. . . and morning breath. . . and flourless chocolate cake.
Lust feels like a kink in the hose, about to explode - the kind of pressure that might start hurting any second.
Lust smells like cherry pie and dirty underwear. . . and you.
Lust sounds like getting lost in the rainforest. . . especially if “rainforest” is the name of a club playing “Balmain Jeans” by Kid Cudi “yummm yummm”.
Lust looks like red lips and tight skirts and everything else that gives men the right to kiss my pretty little neck all night long.

Greed.

Greed smells like “the good stuff”, that no one actually drinks.
Greed tastes like syrup, & not maple syrup -- “pancake syrup”.
Greed feels like tiny little fish hooks are holding your eye-lids open, forcing you to watch a thousand commercials of starving African children, until you feel a little “starving”, yourself, and you yell “honey, what’s for dinner?” and she says, “steak” and you ask “potatoes, too?”.
Greed looks like shiny cars and half-naked women with big boobies, who want to scrub your shiny car and give you kisses.

Envy.

Envy smells like Guinness on my mama’s breath, and not in the funny drunk mom kinda way, in the “why can’t you be sober, it’s my birthday”, kinda way.
Envy tastes like cheap vegan birthday cake, which tastes like garbage.
Envy feels like a rusty needles sewing up papercuts.
Envy looks like an endless instagram feed, and that girl with a nose ring, and pink hair, who knows how to wing her eyeliner and write poetry and play the ukulele, too. Envy looks like me, when everyone else knows how to dance.
Envy sounds like banshees, screeching to the moon, while everyone else cozies up to drink tea.

xx Monique