Perfect

You said that God would be upset. That his wrath would consume me For destroying his creation That was already deemed "perfect" And didn't need to be fixed. But where was god's wrath when His creation mutilated my innocence more Than surgical tools ever could? You said that this is not who I am, That what happened to me Made me what I am But these breasts I hate, I didn't have when I was eight. I hate riding in vehicles With no windows and locked doors. I hate that forests No longer seem magical And that monsters Don't hide underneath my bed But in it. But this, Who I am was not born from this. Where was god's wrath when his "perfect" Creation begged for death? When his "perfect" creation tied a noose Around their neck? When their "perfect" body bled? You shed tears and cry That I am ruining something beautiful. Tell me that to be comfortable In my own body would be a sin. But when god's image, A creation deemed "perfect", Destroyed my beautiful The only tears that have been shed Are my own.