types of people as the seven sins
pride is tall but not as tall as some and it infuriates her. she’s severe but soft in her insecurities, hidden behind layers of painted confidence and the hair she cut herself. her jewelry isn’t a statement, it’s all lines and sharp edges to suit her. she likes her legs, walks with the air of someone who knows exactly what you’re thinking and when she toys with her hair it isn’t an unconscious action; she wants to look perfect– be perfect. she isn’t. but no one denies her efforts.
greed is hidden stashes of quarters in a ziploc bag under his bare mattress. he wears fur on summer nights to preach capitalism and never pays for his drinks. round sunglasses reflect a metallic hue of the world, barely hanging on to the slope of his nose and his dark circles are designer to go with the distressed jeans that offset his very own personal wreck. he only walks in leather-clad strides that take him to what he wants and away from what he doesn’t. his smile is reminiscent of gleaming pearls but he’d never pay for something so tacky.
lust struts unsteadily on concrete in her strappy black heels. she is nervously pulling down the hem of her red lace dress as heads turn to leer. she wants to be loved and do all the things you hear about in books but is scared. she knows she’s beautiful, doesn’t need make-up to enhance perfection, and she knows the most scintillating angles and poses. her heart bleeds but she ignores the pain and paints her lips red to match. she doesn’t take victims, she doesn’t hurt a soul in her pursuits of the body– only leaves the faintest feelings of satiation in her wake.
wrath is laughing and slapping playfully at the person closest to her. she carries scissors and blades in her pockets but not for malicious reasons– just in case. paper cuts and remnants of a brawl litter her golden skin and a nose ring glints in the light of dim street lamps. she gets high to mellow out her tantrums but her reflexes are forever quick-fire. her face only lights up in the glow of a lighter flame and she’s never looked as beautiful as she is basking in the dawn of a fight.
sloth is savoring that lazy, languid stretch when you first wake up. he takes pleasure in the little things, like the feeling of light blue silk on skin or choosing to ignore a text. he declines invites to nights out in favor of glasses of chardonnay and the dull sensation of content solitude. there’s an art to pretending and he is definitively the best; there are no deadlines, no responsibility in his world. it is but a bubble of comfort. he is an isolated sanctuary, toes curling between the warmth of satin sheets and muslin loneliness.
gluttony has crumbs on the corner of his mouth. he wears colorful hawaiian shirts that hang off his bemused gait and pairs them with thin gold chains and a constant hunger in his eyes when he peers at you from over his aviators. he hoards nuts and sweets in random crevices of his outfits and licks syrup off his sticky hands like a man starved; too eager, too enthusiastic for just taste on his tongue.
envy is an androgynous beauty. an exotic corpse of fashion and stolen stares, jaws dropped at the first scent of their agarwood perfume. they could ruin you with a nod but only if you’re worth it. they are absinthe flavored skin and emeralds on chains that line the lengths of their arms because all they want is for you to look at them because why covet what you own when they could simply have your attention?
