She paints a pretty picture,
But the story has a twist.
Her paintbrush is a razor,
Her canvas is her wrist.

She paints a pretty picture,
In a colour that's blood red.
While using her sharp paintbrush,
She ends up finally dead.

Her pretty picture's fading
Quite slowly on her arm.
The blood's 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.