I cannot count the skins I've shed.
They mingle with the night-dresses
pooled at my still-scaled feet
and every thrash of my tail
batters them together; every
blind lash of claws tears them both
to scrap, dashes what lies behind us
into so much thread and dust.
There is no prince within this
Lindwurm's skin, no matter how hard
I'm switched with reeds and lye
nor how long I'm scrubbed down
in sweet milk: only scales,
and more scales,
and wretched flesh.



The moral of the story is:
Schizotypal and borderline do not mix.