She paints a pretty picture
But her story has a twist
Her paint brush is a razor
And her canvas is her wrist
She paints her pretty picture
In a color that is blood red
While using her sharp paint brush
She finally ends up dead
Her pretty picture fading
Quite slowly on her wrist
The blood is not racing threw her
She can no longer do harm
She painted her pretty picture
But her picture had a twist
You see her mind was a razor
And her heart was her wrist
