He'd be twenty today.
Unfortunately, that truck had other plans.
Instead, he'll always be fifteen,
thirteen days away from turning sixteen.
T-***** on the corner from our town to the interstate.
A turn everyone has made one thousand times.
For his memory, only one time will ever be remembered.
A classmate, a friend, a teammate, a brother.
The list goes on and on.
None of these can ever truly capture his fire, life, joy.
There still isn't a day that I do not think of him,
and how unfair it all was.
For a small town of 2000,
we still feel the effects of that tragic day.
When everyone knows everyone else,
and you flip on the news to see things like
"teen killed in crash",
phones light up like wildfire,
everyone calling everyone to check in.
To think,
all that pain, misery, grief
could've been avoided,
if I took the time that day,
staying at the school,
and lifted with him.
Maybe then,
he wouldn't have gone home,
or at least,
not that early.

That night, everyone met at the football field,
and wept.
and wept.
and wept.
Taking styrofoam cups, interlocking them in the fence
to spell out a final message.
"WE <3 U  T-BAIN #11 2013".
You see, 11 was his jersey number for everything, and I mean everything.
He played basketball, football, baseball.
You name it, that dude could play it.
Because he was our Superman.
And 2013 was supposed to be his graduating year.
Instead, a vacant chair with a cap placed ever so neatly
and a gown draped over was all we got.

The service was held in the gym,
there was just no where else to go that would fit enough people.
As people littered the gym,
a giant projector ran clips, showed pictures, played music
but it just wasn't good enough.
I wanted the authentic guy, not just his image ran on a big screen.
I wanted Tanner back.
We all did.
Instead we had the service.
Where there wasn't a single dry eye in the entire O-zone*,
even the sternest of faces softened up.

Two weeks ago,
which was four years and two days after the accident,
we held a charity two and one mile race event.
Wristbands, shirts, glowsticks.
I can promise with one-hundred percent certainty,
that my community has not, cannot, and will not
ever
forget.
"Always remember, never forget" pasted over and over,
on the sports team's shoes, football sideline, wherever.
Instead, this trauma has brought our tight-knit town
closer together than ever before.
We rallied behind his family,
and together we were able to overcome
this melancholic fog
that gripped our town at the throats.
Instead of being glum about his passing,
we celebrate his life,
cherish his memory.
I'm sure
he wouldn't have it any other way.

I'm not mad at you,
I promise.
Don't get me wrong,
I tried so hard to be.
I wanted to be mad at you,
for how everything has played out in the last few months,
but I just can't bring myself to do it.
I love you,
and that just doesn't work.
I miss everything about what used to be,
even the sort of "is this a thing" element,
the mystery became its own little twist.
Each moment treasured,
praying for time to slow down,
come to a screeching halt,
stand perfectly still.
Where everything else
faded out and I finally could
live in the moment.
But I was afraid,
so I did all in my power to push you away,
only to realize too late how much it meant,
finally admitting and coming clean,
only for none of that to matter anymore.
And over the last six weeks,
we've become strangers.
I'll admit I'm not a big fan of that,
but in my heart I genuinely feel that its best,
because the last time we talked and hung out,
only resulted with me going to far,
in pursuit of that previous happiness in a vulnerable time.
Do you remember the last thing you said to me,
after that incident?
That I made you feel uncomfortable.
I refuse to do that again,
because of how I feel about you.
I creaked the door back open,
half-heartedly saying that if you needed anything or wanted to talk,
I could do that.
Only to experience radio silence and glances across the cafeteria.
So maybe,
somewhere inside
you think that this is best,
and I wouldn't blame you for that.
Don't you think you did anything wrong,
because that's simply untrue.
This is just the only way I can protect you
from the monster I've become.

So I'm a little down.
So I'm not like everyone else.
So I'm battling something people don't know much about.
So I'm different.
So I'm "dysfunctional".
So I'm not from a traditional background.
So what?
Does that mean,
I shouldn't be allowed to attend my college?
The one thing keeping me going?
That I should be locked up in the loony bin?
All because my brain has become numb to some pain?
I've found function in my alleged dysfunction,
some traditions occasionally get broken.
Exceptions to the rules are made.
The world is full of suffering,
but it is also full of overcoming it.
So where do you get off,
telling me how to deal with something
you've only read about in your
guidance text books?
Where five minutes into meeting me,
that you feel the ability to dictate how I should go
about my life?
I've lived 20 years on this Earth
without your input,
sure, it hasn't been perfect,
but I've made the unconventional work.
I mean, ask anybody that actually knows me,
if they would ever consider me "conventional".
So don't sit there, and hide behind words like
"I just want what's best for you", "I care about you", "I'm concerned",
"Its your choice to go, but if you don't:
the police will forcibly escort you,
or you'll not be allowed to be in our college community."
Scoffing at the word community,
because whenever someone tries to use that word,
usually it is about discluding people, rather than including them.
"So, either be discluded now, by your 'choice', or by us making you.
All the while, literally 12 hours previous,
we had zero idea what was going on,
or even who you were. "
Seems like you really do have "my best interests at heart", huh?

Fun fact 1:
Depression is genetically linked.
Fun fact 2:
Schizophrenia is genetically linked.
Guess what litters my family tree?
I've already written countless times on
my ongoing battle with depression,
and all the casualties that war has brought,
whether it be 2-3 hours of sleep a night
if I'm lucky,
or complete lack of interest in everything.
But to consider the potential for schizophrenia
to only add to the list of things I constantly worry about,
delusions, hallucinations, general apathy, etc
are things that I've experienced, only to attribute to depression.
Sometimes the only thing that keeps me sane is the ability
to write out all my crap on here and at least pretend someone else reads.
I can't internally self-reflect, simply because I cannot trust my mind.
All that being said,
I doubt I can quantify how much this site helps, even if I rarely write
"poems".
More often than not, its just a free-style blog.
I say that I believe that knowing how much this site actually helps,
because even in the time I've written on here,
I've attempted suicide on multiple occasions, currently 0-3.
I don't care how many times the lightning bolt glows yellow,
or how many people repost, comment, or add any of my writings.
But that could just be the apathy creeping in,
slowly suffocating any potential joy,
all the while, posting at times where people aren't as active.
Just like in real life, where I alter my schedule,
as to not see anyone, or at least,
as few people as possible,
that is, before attempt number four rolls around.
Until then,
it looks like I'll be busy trying to distinguish what is real
and what is all in my head.

We often hear about how fast light is,
comparing extremely fast things to be
"faster than the speed of light"...
but no matter how fast light is,
darkness is always there first,
waiting for it.
In the end,
no matter how hard light attempts to catch up,
the darkness will always be one step ahead.

Three months have passed by
since the last time.
And when the young man thought
"there's no possible way, it could get any worse"
the cosmic powers that be, scoff at the challenge.
For him, the inner battle of depression had remained constant,
occasionally coming and going,
offering a reprieve here and there.
Unfortunately, it had been doing
a considerable more coming than going.
Then, as one tired cliche goes,
the straw finally broke the camel's back.
Tourniquet coiled around his bicep,
tied tight enough to control circulation,
so the veins can pop out, as if screaming
"pick me, pick me!"
Once the needle tears a hole in the skin,
just like last time,
everything in the background fades away,
nothing seeming real anymore,
just slipping further and further away.
And again,
just like last time,
only to be dragged kicking and screaming,
back to reality, coughing up
remnants of dinner in big, meaty chunks.

"What drives you?"
Seems like a simple question,
but as I stare down at my blank paper,
the assignment was supposed to
just be a one-page thing,
not some disgustingly deep
sociological self reflection
that  makes you re-evaluate
every decision you've ever made.
How can one hope to answer all that drives you
in a single paper?
As if that is remotely possible.
But the thing that scares me most about this,
is that I'm not sure I have anything that drives me at all anymore.
Struggling with motivation for as long as I can remember,
where external factors just weren't existent.
Internally persevering was not only optional,
it was necessary.
But what happens when
that little voice in your head
that got you through
torment after torment,
trauma after trauma
tragedy after tragedy,
when no one else was there,
suddenly shuts off,
and is replaced by a new one.
One that never shuts off.
One that drowns out anything and everything else.
One that is sick of the pain.
One that just can't take it anymore.
One that can take a simple little question,
and turn everything topsy-turvy.