The days, they start sometimes with a smile and a fresh steaming cup of something hot for fall, sloshing around in the cup holder of the car on the way to see family all bundled up in layers of fabric like onion skin, healing in layers. Healing in layers, supposedly, that's what they say. And then sometimes, the days that start in smiles end in tears and whiskey alone, they end in music that drowns out the endless stretch of seconds ticking, sliding down the drain with the rotten herbs you boiled to try and soothe the stomach gurgling from stress and a sadness you can't understand, or something dark like that. You watch the sun creep down and be swallowed by the horizon, down down slow below the line of trees, trees that watch you cower on the minuscule plant-covered balcony in a desperate attempt to be alone, rocking rocking back and forth for soft comfort, curled on the hard metal and wondering where the hell to find a piece of substance when trivial pursuit is the only board game you keep coming back to, dusty gold medals and all. And sometimes you reach out, you reach out to those eyes in the night and hope for a stirring, but the backs turn away and the words thrown at you hold no love, you accept the inevitable, you accept your unhappiness as a lack of gratitude but deep down mostly you just accept your punishment, having tried to be good and pure and make good decisions that suit everyone, having tried to be true to yourself and who you believe yourself to be and then failed, start as trying and end up tired, having failed at fitting the puzzle pieces into their rightful positions, all lined up to be marched to war. Your tongue is lined with fur. Your heart is etched stone, only you can't make out the graffiti....all gibberish and smart-ass obscurity, beautiful and damaged like a photo you once saw on Reddit. Funny enough to not laugh. You blame it on capitalism, blame it on the Illuminati, or your possibly nonexistent gluten intolerance, blame it on these hot November summer days that make you feel an alien in your own dry taut skin, hell blame it on your Father, no matter so long as at the end of the day you stand up and be a man...because none of us will ever be the heroes we want to be. Just a man, a haggard-faced man maybe with tits or dry hands that takes responsibility for his actions, be they tears or smiles or silence or raging fury or fear or cowardice or a much-needed self-slap to the face.