Just another checkbox 
Marked again in their finite lists 
In permanent ink. 
 
Paper that screens the eyes 
Tempers hatred to a fine blade. 
To be screened to the Ins as fun, 
Never tempered by the pain of the Outs. 
 
Lists are solitary. 
Ink is final. 
We’re just another checkbox 
To be checked off. 
Out. Out. In. Out. In. 
 
Those thrown out by Listmakers 
Buy their own pens; 
Find their own paper; 
Draw their own boxes; 
Make their own lists 
To throw their own blades. 
 
Now We are the Listmakers. 
We chastise the Outs. 
We couldn’t be with the Outs. 
We prescribe these blades. 
We proscribe the bleeding.

But We Are. 
We all Are 
And so am I.