The women in my family have worn their grief like pearls, tears that fallen down to their ears hanging daintily, shimmering powder blue, passed down from mother to mother, a generational heirloom.
Everybody thinks I'm this imperfect child The try and change me shape me Like a cloud in the sky Call me whatever you want You can change my outside Mascara, eyeliner, perfume But you can't change my inside Because that is me