She paints a pretty picture
But the story has a twist
Her paint brush is a razor
And her canvas is her wrist
She paints her pretty picture
In a colour that's blood red
While using her sharp pain brush
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 story had a twist
You see...her mind was her razor
And her heart was her wrist
Author's note
I don't really know how to manage the chapters with poems so I'll be writing like that.Feel free to comment or vote
