She paints a pretty picture,
But the picture has a twist,
Her paintbrush is a razor,
And her canvas is her wrist,
She paints her pretty picture in a colour that is blood red,
While using her sharp paintbrush,
She ends up finally dead,
Her pretty picture fading,
Quite slowly on her arm,
The blood no longer racing through her,
She can no longer do harm,
She painted a pretty picture but her picture had a twist...
Her mind was a razor and her heart was her wrist.
