Jesus came to my birthday party when i was 17.
He listened and laughed and smirked a bit
at the holes and scars in my dreams.
He wore a black hat, and jeans, and chains;
he said heaven was not what it seemed.
That angels and devils were one and the same,
and them plus me makes three.
He said nobody knows what's really the matter,
so just keep on pretending to be
what God and teachers and mothers and fathers
all expect from a girl of 17.
That was a long time ago,
and i haven't seen him in a while.
He smokes on occassion, but not for fun,
and says he was innocent and should have had a trial.
But he's dead and so am i so what's even the use,
of remembering a birthday that never existed:
i'll plead insanity as my excuse.