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 a color thats blood red.
While using her sharp paintbrush,
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 any harm.
She painted a pretty picture,
But her picture had a twist.
You see her mind was her razor,
And her heart was her wrist.
