A/N probably over used but I felt the need to put it down.
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She paints a pretty picture
But the story has a twist,
Her paintbrush 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 paintbrush,
She ends up finally dead,
Her pretty pictures fading
Quite slowly from her wrist,
The blood is no longer racing through her,
She can no longer do harm.
She painted her pretty picture,
But her story had a twist,
You see her mind was the razor
And her heart was her wrist.
