March 10th

 A broken fence reminds me of a 16-year-old boy getting his first car. But then again, getting it taken away when he turns 18 and goes to jail.

I remember handprints on plexiglass trying to connect.
I thought that was what love was.
A barrier to stand against, a wall to protect, all because wrong choices lead us to desperation.
I was desperate for you.
Only you, I assumed, could love me, see me, accept me, even though your affection was isolated with conditions.
Rules you didn't follow because you grew lazy.
And I grew comfortable with second place haze.