She paints a pretty picture,
But the picture has a twist,
Her paint brush is her razor,
And her canvas is her wrist,
She paints he pretty picture,
In a colour that's blood red,
Whilst using her paint brush,
She finally ends up dead,
Her pretty pictures fading,
Quite slowly on her arm,
Blood is not racing through her,
She can no longer do no harm,
She painted her pretty picture,
But the picture had a twist,
You see her mind was her razor and her heart was her wrist