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