She paints a pretty picture,

But the story has a twist,

Her paintbrush is a razor,

And her canvas is her wrist.

She paints her pretty picture

In a color thats blood red

While using her sharp paintbrush

She ends up finally dead

Her pretty pictures fading,

Quite slowly on 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 just her wrist.