She paints a pretty picture,
But her plot has a twist,
Her paint brush is a razor,
And her canvas is her wrist
She paints her pretty picture
In a colour that's blood red
While using her sharp blade
she ends up finally dead
Her pretty picture is fading
Quite slowly on her arm
The blood is not racing through her
She can no longer harm
She painted her pretty picture
But her picture had a twist
You see her mind was her razor,
And her heart was her wrist.
