She paints a pretty picture,
But the story has a twist,
The paint is her razor,
And her canvas is her wrist.
She paints her pretty picture,
In a colour that's blood red,
While using her sharp pain(t) brush,
She ends up finally dead.
Her pretty pictures fading,
Quite slowly down her arm,
The blood is not racing through her,
She can no longer do harm.
She painted her pretty picture,
But her picture had a twist,
You see her mind was her razor,
And her heart was her wrist.
