Dancing Bruises.
Cracking Questions.
Was it Fate that pushed Pete in Frankie's way or the other way around?
Pete knew that Frankie was his rope but did that rope end with a noose or salvation?
Did it mean something? Was he supposed to save Frankie or was Frankie supposed to fill a void in Pete's life?
Frankie was still a question that got more complicated by the second. Take a crack at a math equation stuffed with numbers, symbols and letters then slam it headfirst into a philosophical riddle that's a hybrid between explain what's a soul? and give me a piece of God.
Isn't that too much for a cat?
Letting a question like that slip would be worse than popping a pregnant black cloud and letting all the shit pour down at once into your already infected eyes.
Frankie was like a hook in the gums, the more you try to pull it, the deeper it sinks rupturing bone and magenta tissue; everything in its way sucks it in deeper, until you just give up and let the scar tissue build up and the rust poison your soul.
Pete's on his bed, holding onto Frankie’s imaginary head and trying to peel away all the skin and the hair and the smiles just to see the real naked Frankie. The deranged Santa Clause with the ninety-nine radiant bruises and opaque thoughts that ate up every muscle holding the mass of blood and feelings and ligaments in between those wiry chest bones.
Pete wanted to see the real Frankie. No matter how ugly he was.
Pete knew that Frankie was his rope but did that rope end with a noose or salvation?
Did it mean something? Was he supposed to save Frankie or was Frankie supposed to fill a void in Pete's life?
Frankie was still a question that got more complicated by the second. Take a crack at a math equation stuffed with numbers, symbols and letters then slam it headfirst into a philosophical riddle that's a hybrid between explain what's a soul? and give me a piece of God.
Isn't that too much for a cat?
Letting a question like that slip would be worse than popping a pregnant black cloud and letting all the shit pour down at once into your already infected eyes.
Frankie was like a hook in the gums, the more you try to pull it, the deeper it sinks rupturing bone and magenta tissue; everything in its way sucks it in deeper, until you just give up and let the scar tissue build up and the rust poison your soul.
Pete's on his bed, holding onto Frankie’s imaginary head and trying to peel away all the skin and the hair and the smiles just to see the real naked Frankie. The deranged Santa Clause with the ninety-nine radiant bruises and opaque thoughts that ate up every muscle holding the mass of blood and feelings and ligaments in between those wiry chest bones.
Pete wanted to see the real Frankie. No matter how ugly he was.
♠ ♠ ♠
Super short update. Next one's gonna be super long :3 with a surprise. ~~