Growing Out My Hair Again

Attestment

I cry crystals and pearls,

I bleed gold and mend with steel.

I am beautiful falling apart,

And have been since i was born.

My mother collected the gems from my eyes,

And told me to make constellations.

If i were to paint my beautiful spirailing pieces black and blue,

Would they finally understand

I am not a beautiful product,

But an attestment of pain?