" She paints a pretty picture, but this story has a twist
You see, her paintbrush is a razor
And her canvas is her wrist.
She paints a pretty picture, in a colour thats blood red,
While using her sharp paintbrsuh
She finally ends up dead.
Her pretty picture is slowly 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 picture has a twist
You see,
Her mind was the razor
And her heart was just her wrist "
