She paints a pretty picture,
But the story has a twist,
Her paintbrush was a razor,
And her canvas was her wrist.
She paints her pretty picture,
In a color that's blood red,
While using her sharp paintbrush,
She ends up 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.