She painted a pretty picture,
But her story had a twist:
Her paintbrush was a razor,
Her canvas was her wrist.

She painted a pretty picture,
In a colour, a quite deep red.
After using her pretty paintbrush,
She ends up, finally dead.

She painted a pretty picture,
That faded slowly on her arm.
With blood no longer racing through her,
She no longer do any harm.

She painted a pretty picture,
But her story had a twist:
You see, her mind was her razor,
And her heart was her wrist.