Dancing Bruises.

He didn't seem happy. Frankie thought pressing his lips together, criss-crossing his color-invaded arms around some random pretty girl's waist crunching up the delicate taffeta of her overpriced excuse of a dress between his drifting fingers.
She's drunk and loose and he feels like wrestling a cardiac arrest that's clinging to the bottom of his ribs.

He's dancing into her, he's indulging in her skin, he's toying with her hair, toying with her hipbones and she's giggling like a useless ragdoll with a rusty voice-box planted in her moldy insides; drunken with alcohol bashing against her blood cells and she's giggling with every microscopic crash as Frankie's fingers clench around her ass all the way through the numerous layers of her overpriced excuse of a dress. She's giggling, glassy eyes gleaming with rainbow-colored sky-high bliss from the intermixed lights, the booze and Frankie's face and he's smiling.

Frankie's high with what fucks and narcotics can't give; he's high on a rush that he loves to crave. He's high on smiles.

She's a mess and she's a wreck between his arms, as he breathes into her neck and she's giggling with that shaky voice; she's a mess and she's a wreck and she's his charity case.
She's giggling again as Frankie's fingers draw her in through countless layers of her overpriced excuse of a dress; no words needed.
He'll just crawl into your insides and melt them away with his eyes.

He's the new-age Santa Clause; only slightly modified to give you what you're afraid to want. Doesn't matter if you deserve it or not. What matters is that you go away with a smile.

He's clenching and digging into her flesh and she's too funny to care.
He's what all those boys and girls want for the night; a walking painting so tortured in its beauty; colored by nights and nights and months of nights; by boys, by girls, by what people want; a place to mark their mark; and he's their hall of fame.

Now Nameless Girl is dragging him along her staggering path, her bones twisting and twirling within her skin, every blue vein protruding, groping each soft bones riddling her body. He can almost feel those tiny blue branches burying into his arms and pumping every drop of excess alcohol into him.

Something doesn't feel right.
Something is out of place this time; something's missing: he just can't put his finger on it.

Frankie's head a jukebox now, stained with her giggles and whispers singing to the beat of his thoughts. This girl's too much of a mess to care; is Santa losing faith in his disciple now?
He's running around punching walls in his head as his imaginary swollen fist shake and tremble with pain as they run across her thigh and up her overpriced excuse of a dress, then slide down between those clashing shades of blushing red, fake tan and trimmed down pubes.

And she's still giggling; cackling and spinning her glitter head in crazy slanted circles, she's a melting wax sculpture staining and mingling into Frankie's flesh and clothes.
"You're a fucking animal." He could feel the ivory of her smile rips through the beads of water around his neck, breaking all the numerous necklaces pouring from his nerves and his bones, pouring blue and purple underneath the shadows of her spray-scented hair. Could go on fire from just one spark.

He's in her now, just ignoring the belt that's scraping and grinding against the small of his back as he supported her scattered limbs, tangled with his own; kinda like his own when he was with Pete. Girly paperclip limbs that crumble from body heat.

With girls his mouth is sewn shut but with boys it was like being punched in the mouth the spending those last minutes counting the harvested split lips; boys like him weak and open while girls want him to lead.

Double Frankie's are hard to juggle with a smile.

Something's not right this time but he's still merging into her and he could feel her toes curl like burning leather against his back as she slaps kisses and ohs along his lips. And this feels so wrong.
This isn't happiness anymore. It's just fucking. He's grunting, forcing the smell of suffocating hairspray and sulfate sweat out of his head just to focus on the lump in his throat that's taking its toll now; this lost all its screwed up glamour in just one blow. He's fighting this knot in his breaths as he pretends he's into it, groaning and thrusting like every little good boy would; this just feels too long.

Nameless Girl is stuttering and throwing up incoherencies all over his vacuum-wrapped t-shirt as her fingers tangle with his hair like ballerina spiders doing wild pirouettes on his scalp; and she's moaning and writhing into his ears almost incest-like; a baby snake with spider legs running around and around and around within his hair screaming ecstasy and want.
Her breaths are steam-hot and she's shouting into his ears and Frankie barely manages not to run away. The magic's gone.
He still felt the same. Not an ounce better.

Then it hit him; a big iron fist of reality as he clung and twisted around her overpriced excuse for a dress, letting one last fierce thrust within her trembling hips.

"Shit."

Hero Pete broke him.
The magic's gone. Santa's sleigh burnt down and it smells like cat hair.

Ring a bell?