Dancing Bruises.
Doormat Body.
He never did call. And Frankie was scared already. They always did.
Twirling his bones around in those baby-blue sheets, he pulled his limbs together and sat up right, rubbing those tired orbs of his and flicking the strings of flawless black away from his sight.
He eyed the still silent body sprawled next to him, exhaling and inhaling all yesterday's memories away. That's what they did. Inhaled and exhaled him like a one-shot thing, a cancer-packed nothing thrown under their heels and stomped into the ground.
But it's not like he minded.
He was just this big-eyed joint that was passed around between strangers he never cared to know. Just let them take a whiff and have a taste then move on; away from instant pleasure. It wasn't like he was being selfish and having all the fun. He was the one spreading joy in his own way. This way they'll never have to deal with heart-break; he's like their own little Santa Claus. Making everyone happy through tearing up his body.
Slowly, Frankie twisted out of those suffocating sheets, stained of sweat, booze and God knows what, to let his bare feet meet the unwelcoming cold of the floors that was more like needles and shards of searing dry-ice planted there to remind him that home was far far away and alien like a stranger's frigid heart. His small defined frame stood as he forlornly scanned the grounds for any familiar piece of clothing until he found his simple attire piled up in a messy bundle near an equally messy heap of darker fabrics.
At least it's clean this time. A faint smile eroded his past feelings as he swooped his shirt and began to pull it on; no rush. It's not like someone's out for your neck.
No-one's gonna shoot Santa Claus. Even if he's a little bit different than the rest of us.
*
Some times, at night, I just wake up to kiss you on the lips and see if you're still real.
That's the last bit of any sincere emotion Frankie could ever remember. It draws a smile and a smirk all over his lips at the same time, because that very same sweet talker said those words over and over like a broken record that's finally gone insane. A broken record on its last leg and a noose around its throat. Last sincere words, pretty much a suicide note.
Just like that. Come home, tired as hell, fucker's gotta bullet through his skull and no pulse at all.
And nothing else to say.
Frankie sighs and blinks away old scenes of messes and screams; the past died and he didn't.
There's got to be a bright side to that. Everything's gotta reason, right?
First night, cry yourself to sleep on the floor. Second night, ask why God's fucked you over and didn't take your worthless life instead. Third night, you get pissed at the lazy fucker who was too weak to hold on and fucking try to dig his way through life like you're doing. Fourth night, you're lost and confused and crying altogether. Fifth night, you want to kill yourself and meet the bastard in hell. Sixth night, you're still crying. Seventh night, your tears dry out. Eighth night, you give up and lose it.
Ninth night, you go dancing.
And he's fucked everything in sight so the image of that sweet-talking ghost would lose itself through all the sweat and the dim lights. But it always came back at the end of the night; no matter how hard he tried.
Even though each crease and sin in his body has been unfolded and re-folded numerous times by now, he still had that stupid stupid childish glint in his eyes. The one that said 'don't leave me alone' but instead they did just that; so he began to do the opposite: leave them before they left him.
And now he's doing just that; leaving the stack of blood and oxygen sleeping back in its own baby-blue sheets as he skulked down the allies and just thought. Just wishful thinking, like in the movies, that he'd find his prince charming that would love him and love him and squeeze his little bones out of their joints and sockets and light his hips on fire. Just wishful thinking.
He never really had any friends, except his band. Apart from a few casual fucks with Hazel Eyes, they were the purest people to him; the only ones he could lend his trust even just for a little while. He never listened to them, though. Frankie just kept doing the shit he kept doing the past months and going nowhere. He stopped caring when he smelled rust on his clothes and gunpowder on his bed.
He's sighing now as he sees home. His numb numb home where the circle begins all over. Just gotta change then wait till the sun dies down.
Then Frankie's gonna dance until his bones rot.
Twirling his bones around in those baby-blue sheets, he pulled his limbs together and sat up right, rubbing those tired orbs of his and flicking the strings of flawless black away from his sight.
He eyed the still silent body sprawled next to him, exhaling and inhaling all yesterday's memories away. That's what they did. Inhaled and exhaled him like a one-shot thing, a cancer-packed nothing thrown under their heels and stomped into the ground.
But it's not like he minded.
He was just this big-eyed joint that was passed around between strangers he never cared to know. Just let them take a whiff and have a taste then move on; away from instant pleasure. It wasn't like he was being selfish and having all the fun. He was the one spreading joy in his own way. This way they'll never have to deal with heart-break; he's like their own little Santa Claus. Making everyone happy through tearing up his body.
Slowly, Frankie twisted out of those suffocating sheets, stained of sweat, booze and God knows what, to let his bare feet meet the unwelcoming cold of the floors that was more like needles and shards of searing dry-ice planted there to remind him that home was far far away and alien like a stranger's frigid heart. His small defined frame stood as he forlornly scanned the grounds for any familiar piece of clothing until he found his simple attire piled up in a messy bundle near an equally messy heap of darker fabrics.
At least it's clean this time. A faint smile eroded his past feelings as he swooped his shirt and began to pull it on; no rush. It's not like someone's out for your neck.
No-one's gonna shoot Santa Claus. Even if he's a little bit different than the rest of us.
*
Some times, at night, I just wake up to kiss you on the lips and see if you're still real.
That's the last bit of any sincere emotion Frankie could ever remember. It draws a smile and a smirk all over his lips at the same time, because that very same sweet talker said those words over and over like a broken record that's finally gone insane. A broken record on its last leg and a noose around its throat. Last sincere words, pretty much a suicide note.
Just like that. Come home, tired as hell, fucker's gotta bullet through his skull and no pulse at all.
And nothing else to say.
Frankie sighs and blinks away old scenes of messes and screams; the past died and he didn't.
There's got to be a bright side to that. Everything's gotta reason, right?
First night, cry yourself to sleep on the floor. Second night, ask why God's fucked you over and didn't take your worthless life instead. Third night, you get pissed at the lazy fucker who was too weak to hold on and fucking try to dig his way through life like you're doing. Fourth night, you're lost and confused and crying altogether. Fifth night, you want to kill yourself and meet the bastard in hell. Sixth night, you're still crying. Seventh night, your tears dry out. Eighth night, you give up and lose it.
Ninth night, you go dancing.
And he's fucked everything in sight so the image of that sweet-talking ghost would lose itself through all the sweat and the dim lights. But it always came back at the end of the night; no matter how hard he tried.
Even though each crease and sin in his body has been unfolded and re-folded numerous times by now, he still had that stupid stupid childish glint in his eyes. The one that said 'don't leave me alone' but instead they did just that; so he began to do the opposite: leave them before they left him.
And now he's doing just that; leaving the stack of blood and oxygen sleeping back in its own baby-blue sheets as he skulked down the allies and just thought. Just wishful thinking, like in the movies, that he'd find his prince charming that would love him and love him and squeeze his little bones out of their joints and sockets and light his hips on fire. Just wishful thinking.
He never really had any friends, except his band. Apart from a few casual fucks with Hazel Eyes, they were the purest people to him; the only ones he could lend his trust even just for a little while. He never listened to them, though. Frankie just kept doing the shit he kept doing the past months and going nowhere. He stopped caring when he smelled rust on his clothes and gunpowder on his bed.
He's sighing now as he sees home. His numb numb home where the circle begins all over. Just gotta change then wait till the sun dies down.
Then Frankie's gonna dance until his bones rot.