She lies there, half peeled,
Stripped of her shield.
She tries to hold up her skin,
The very sheath that was part
of her strength and identity.

She lies there, half peeled,
Miserable and shrivelled,
Surrounded by mutton curries,
their scents and hers,
Mingling together.

She lies there, half peeled,
Bemoaning her lost casing.
Bemoaning that part of herself.
That thick floppy armour,
which upheld her.

She lies there, half peeled,
Crying for her lost self,
Crying for her essence,
That was once sweetly preserved,
Purely for herself.

She lies there, half peeled,
Crying for that very fragrance,
That had now become stale
And was forever lost into
the overpowering aroma of curries.

She lies there, half stoic,
Half broken, half gone,
Half crying, half trying,
But fully, completely, irreversibly
peeled.