She paints a pretty picture
But her picture has a twist
Her paint brush is a razor
And her canvas is her wrist
She paints a pretty picture
Aiming this time at her head
And finally without a doubt
This time she'll end up dead.
She painted pretty pictures
They still didn't know
That with all the scars and blood and tears
There's some things that never show.
She doesn't paint the pictures
She tells them all how she feels
And they think that it's just a phase
They don't see how she deals.
They say they can get therapy
But will it ever work?
For the girl who paints the pictures
Doesn't see therapy's perk.
She wants to go and hide away
Her friends decided not to stay
Her only true one moved so she cries every day
So what's there left to do?
