Dancing Bruises.
The Cat Affect.
Numbers smash into his eyesight as he recalls Frankie's name, Frankie's lips, Frankie's hasty handwriting and it's just a parade of FrankieFrankieFrankie and more FrankieFrankieFrankie and shit, he still didn't care that much.
He's just stuck in denial, denial and more denial. He just didn't want to admit it. He never cared for anyone like Frankie -dancers and whores and used people- but Frankie... oh he didn't dance to any beat. Not like every dancerwhoreusedperson. He danced to invisible beats drawn out in his head and his body; his body language. It was obscene, dirty, vulgar yet, sweetly broken down into fragile signs and gestures scattered across every living sanguine muscle laid across his twirling bones. He leaked desperation and wanted to fill himself up with attention, attention and more attention.
Pete didn't want to care for him but he did. He still wanted to know what made Frankie dance.
The number that was on his hand days ago had faded out with every look he gave it until it tattooed itself into his brain matter. And every time he peered into his mind it almost begged him to call; the zeroes and the fours and the fives all smiled at him brightly, smiles that almost lit his eyes on fire. Cat-got-the-canary smiles.
That's when he knew he couldn't stop his fingers from pinching those numbers.
It was all for Frankie and his larger than life smile.
Frankie's messing with his head and scrambling his thoughts and sprinkling static and confusion all over everything he's doing now; a TV screen without a picture or sound, only dots of black and white drowning in grey waves and indistinguishable racket. He couldn't think, he couldn't sleep, he couldn't even take a breath without inhaling Frankie's name and eyes mingled between every little gas atom in the air; a new kind of pollution. It's in the air, it's in his pores, it's in his blood. He's being poisoned by Frankie and every number he marked on his skin. And he's helpless; a baby dipped in boiling ammonia by his own mother.
Pete's sighing now, looking past his walls, past his common sense, past his feelings and he bites his words before he even lets them loose. He didn't care, he didn't want this, he just wants to know.
"Fuck..." he swore under his breath, holding onto his cell phone. This is a mess waiting to happen. Curiosity killed the cat, didn't it?
Click, one, click, two, click, crash, click, you're, click, suffocating, click, don't, click, stupid, click, don't.
Remember the dead cat? Ringringring and you hear his voice. Cat's got your tongue? So so many cats come into mind, they're not as nice and cute as the ones you see in pictures or cartoons. They're not as stupid. They're just curious evil things that stab you in the back, just like Tom.
He's suffocating and stumbling on his letters and sentences; speechless for Frankie Iero.
"... Frankie?"
Remember the cat?
He's just stuck in denial, denial and more denial. He just didn't want to admit it. He never cared for anyone like Frankie -dancers and whores and used people- but Frankie... oh he didn't dance to any beat. Not like every dancerwhoreusedperson. He danced to invisible beats drawn out in his head and his body; his body language. It was obscene, dirty, vulgar yet, sweetly broken down into fragile signs and gestures scattered across every living sanguine muscle laid across his twirling bones. He leaked desperation and wanted to fill himself up with attention, attention and more attention.
Pete didn't want to care for him but he did. He still wanted to know what made Frankie dance.
The number that was on his hand days ago had faded out with every look he gave it until it tattooed itself into his brain matter. And every time he peered into his mind it almost begged him to call; the zeroes and the fours and the fives all smiled at him brightly, smiles that almost lit his eyes on fire. Cat-got-the-canary smiles.
That's when he knew he couldn't stop his fingers from pinching those numbers.
It was all for Frankie and his larger than life smile.
Frankie's messing with his head and scrambling his thoughts and sprinkling static and confusion all over everything he's doing now; a TV screen without a picture or sound, only dots of black and white drowning in grey waves and indistinguishable racket. He couldn't think, he couldn't sleep, he couldn't even take a breath without inhaling Frankie's name and eyes mingled between every little gas atom in the air; a new kind of pollution. It's in the air, it's in his pores, it's in his blood. He's being poisoned by Frankie and every number he marked on his skin. And he's helpless; a baby dipped in boiling ammonia by his own mother.
Pete's sighing now, looking past his walls, past his common sense, past his feelings and he bites his words before he even lets them loose. He didn't care, he didn't want this, he just wants to know.
"Fuck..." he swore under his breath, holding onto his cell phone. This is a mess waiting to happen. Curiosity killed the cat, didn't it?
Click, one, click, two, click, crash, click, you're, click, suffocating, click, don't, click, stupid, click, don't.
Remember the dead cat? Ringringring and you hear his voice. Cat's got your tongue? So so many cats come into mind, they're not as nice and cute as the ones you see in pictures or cartoons. They're not as stupid. They're just curious evil things that stab you in the back, just like Tom.
He's suffocating and stumbling on his letters and sentences; speechless for Frankie Iero.
"... Frankie?"
Remember the cat?
♠ ♠ ♠
Things are progressing slowly, I know but forgive me.