"Like peeling an onion" you said.
No.
More; unseaming
slipped stitches,
knotted aims,
frayed edges.

Hunchbacked,
peddling metal
over punched pins,
threading maydays into cloth.

Fingers fumbling at loose seams,
unravelling weaves,
desperate hems,
moth eaten, scrapped themes.

Now, all I am is an empty spool,
someone's discarded thimble.

Rethread.
Try the pattern again.