I would love to shed my skin:
Unzip my mottled scales and emerge, pink and damp,
Allowing the worn-out, used, unwanted sheath
To crumble, drily, to the floor.

I step out, I am newly-hatched
Yet fully-formed.
My old skin turns to dust and is whisked away
Memories of it eclipsed by novelty.

Instead: to change my spots
Is a sticky, hard and resistant shift.
Work, wash, bend, stretch;
Scrubbing, scouring, scratching;
Sometimes they’re still there in the morning.
Slowly some spots soften. Some stay.

I cannot shed my skin:
I suspect I’m attached to it.