All my tired pretty horses

I like to get up out of bed at night when my thoughts are hissing and flicking their scattered tongues, weaving in and out of my ears.
To wear nothing but cotton undies and a woolen jumper while sitting at my desk, one foot curled tightly under me, indulging for a moment in the luxury of the midnight silence and the empty space surrounding me.
Feeling royal in a Collingwood flat.
Chasing ghosts with thickly buttered toast and black cherry jam.

I’d like to write down some of these slithering snakes, to pluck them one by one out of this browning apple and pin them for you to understand.
But you see, it’s easy to catch and talk about the big ones; deaths, rapes, cheaters and all the other gods and events.
To be completely honest, they are lazy and not worth worrying about as much as their size may suggest.
It’s the small things that churn me. Flexing their tiny bodies under my skin. Resembling translucent maggots rather.
The devil is in them, hiding because he’s too ashamed and embarrassed, petty in his jealousy and mistrust and digging himself in deeper with tiny teeth, a whole round mouth full, every time his ego is bruised.
Feasting on my juicy insides, eating away with each new disappointment until one day there won’t be any of me left and they’ll fall off chalk bones.

Saturated.

Bellies swollen.

Gluttonous little fuckers!