She paints a pretty picture
But this story has a twist
Her paint brush is her razor
And her canvas is her wrist
She paints her pretty picture
In a colour that's blood red
While using her sharp paintbrush
She ends up finally dead
Her pretty picture 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 

Her mind was her razor
And her heart was her wrist.