She paints a pretty picture

But this picture has a twist

You see… 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 ends up finally dead

Her pretty picture’s 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 the razor

And her heart was just her wrist.