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 color that's blood red.

And while using her sharp paint brush,
She ends up finally dead.

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

The blood is not racing through
She can no longer do her harm.

She painted her pretty picture,
But that picture had a twist...

Her mind was her razor.

And her heart was her wrist.