What's done is done,
Probably so many times,
and done for so long
That it cannot be recalled,
Immemorial and irreversible,
and sometimes it's of little use,
Irreversible and irrelevant,
and so it was with me
When I realized that passion for
identity
Is for black power and gay pride,
An oh-shit bar for teenage's bumpy
ride,
and that every time I write
On the subject is a tiny crime,
Though it appears that ship has sailed
To the Unincarcerated Lands
Until the next time I write one,
and inevitably get away with it,
Too privileged to prosecute
For crimes of misapplied privilege.
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