She sits alone and paints her pretty picture, but this story has a twist, you see her paint brush was her razor and her canvas was her wrist.

She paints her pretty picture in the color of blood red, well using her sharp paintbrush she ends up finally dead.

Her pretty pictures fading quite slowly on her arm, the bloods no longer racing, no longer can she harm.

She paints her pretty picture but you see her picture has a twist.

Her mind was her razor and her heart was her wrist.