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 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 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 her heart was her wrist