"She paints a pretty picture,
But this picture has a twist.
Her paintbrush 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 paintbrush,
She finally ends up dead.
Her pretty picture’s fading,
sneaking slowly down her arm,
the blood is not racing through her,
She can no longer do harm.
She painted her pretty picture,
But that picture had a twist…
You see, her mind was the razor,
And her heart was just her wrist."