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