She paints a pretty picture,
But here's a shocking twist.
Her paintbrush is her blade and her canvas is her wrist.
She paints a pretty picture,
In a color that's blood red.
Creating her image,
Until she finally ends up dead.
Her pretty picture is fading,
Quite slowly on her wrist.
The bloods no longer racing through her,
She can no longer do harm.
She's painted a pretty picture,
But here's a shocking twist.
Her mind was her razor,
And her heart was her wrist.
