She paints a pretty picture

But this picture has a twist,

you see…

Her paintbrush is a razor

And her canvas is her wrist.

She paints a pretty picture

In a colour thats blood red

While using her sharp paintbrush

She finally ends up 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 a pretty picture

But her picture had a twist,

You see her mind was the razor

And her heart was just her wrist.