She paints a pretty picture

But this story has a twist

Her paint brush is a razor

And her canvas is her wrist

She paints her pretty picture

In a colour that's blood red

While using he sharp paint brush

She finally ends up dead

Her pretty pictures fading

Quite slowly on her arm

The blood is no longer 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