Why are you lost, so far in the fields,

populated by sadness, going without meals?

Why do you refuse the outstretched hands with thin fingers,

but take the hands in which blades are clutched?

You could likely get better, if you tried,

but you don't.

Why do you want to see yourself bleed

onto the porcelain ground,

turning the white to red?

Why do you let your hands shake

and whither with weakness,

when you can attain a cure?

All of your supplies are in your quivering hands,

why won't you stop dropping them?