My mother had little negativity; my father, a lot. They had individual toxicity, but together, did not. They taught me the right and wrong way to be, but little is more brittle than me. What am I?

Eyes like a serpent, bones cold and white, or not. I have many faces but no two are the same.

Bite me and I'll bleed, Wag me or dont speak, I have great taste And plenty of secrets to keep

Some say I hold things steady Or I'm lightning from the blue I'm also fabric, rolled and ready And I'll dash away from you

Born in fire from powdered stones, A fragile sheet from Gaia's bones. Smooth of surface, rather hard - will cut deep with a broken shard. This stuff sounds difficult to view: you don't look at it, you look through.