She paints a pretty picture,
But the story has a twist.
Her paint brush is a razor,
And her canvas her wrist.
She paints her pretty picture, In a color that’s blood red.
While using her sharp paint brush,
She ends up finally dead.
Her pretty pictures fading,
Quite slowly on her arm,
The blood is not racing though 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.