Self harm

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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 her pretty picture

In a colour 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 blood is not racing through her

She can no longer do harm

She painted her pretty picture

But her picture had a twist

You see her mind was her razor 

And heart was her wrist 

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