Dancing Bruises.

Third time's the charm. Third time's the charm. Third time's the charm.

He's been tossing and turning within the empty lonely sheets for a while now, battling unborn monsters and queasy fears bursting from the back of his head and the barrier of fantasy and reality; all mixed with that harrowing feeling of self-induced loneliness. A feeling so hauntingly familiar to Pete that it hurts; a feeling that hadn't come up since the night everything tore itself apart; the first night of the aftermath where he felt so alone, so deathly alone and without a shred of flickering light to guide him from the hole he had thrown himself in, gnashing on his perfectly carved smile and every I'm sorry his ears consumed.

Just a question to you with rotten breaths and indecisive greens.

The boy in his dreams is bleeding and spilling his guts all over the marble floors and he's screaming his lungs away as he almost tastes the bloody rust spread across his arms and cotton-clad chest soaked red. The rusty calloused taste is thickening over his fingertips and clothes as he's drinking up the sight splattered across the thready nerves adorning his retinas.

You're just a poor little boy who can't cry, Wentz. The boy of his dreams is coughing blood and laughing his dead ass off as his bowels mix on the floor, climbing out of that grinning gash puckered like cherry-dyed lips revealing rib-long teeth and yellow bowel-puke; right next to the door with the flickering light bulb. One, two, three, four, eleven; he's missing a rib that's leaving this big big wide space in his side like an ugly lost tooth ruining a magazine Hollywood smile.

All a scary scarring nightmare that runs through his mind every night and breaks down his sleep into a non-existent memory of insomnia and mouthfuls of bitter-grainy pills clawing their way down his stubborn esophagus; dry as a towel and spiky as a cactus it felt after each capsule and each compressed-powder remedy.

He needed sleep, no doubt. But the boy in the dream had raging-sea-black skull-eyes hollow enough to suck the soul from you, suck any will to rest and feel at peace with the universe. Eyes very much like the ones hiding behind Frankie's sallow eyelids; the dyed-eyelids that looked dead-white under the rapidly changing club lights, where he'd dance, dance and dance until the lights made no sense to both of them; dancer and viewer. And those pieces of boneless flesh would merge into mindless and unsaved kisses.

That boy had him now; he had him good.

Good.
He's an innocent little dancing doll with claws in his eyes that tunnel deep in your eyes.

Oh fuck.
He's curling into his unwanting bed again and holding back all those feelings gushing through his insides as the glossy black and white of the night climbed through his mirror casting reflections of dull moonlight against his walls and his eyes followed. Like a little boy with a larger than life imagination creating beasts across his walls and monsters under this bed. He was knocked out back into that rocky state of mind only panic can grant; his eyes were creating monsters on the ceiling, on the walls through the mirror and through the shadows; even dancing on the tip of his fingers with cherry lips and impaled grins. His eyes made those trickling beams of moonlight seem like headlights chasing him into the dark and waiting. Waiting to run him over and leave his body a matted minced rug onto the floor.

It's the illusions, the fantasies, the nightmares that never stay in your head.
If he fell asleep flashes and ribbons of bleeding colors choke his mind and pin him down so he'd never wake up, and if he wakes up slaps and metal beatings are the ones who'd never let him sleep.

He was in limbo and he needed a catalyst to face the headlights or never wake up. And maybe... maybe those twirling shameless bones were the answer.