The painter has her paintbrush.
She swipes and glides it across,
A picture of red moves and she smiles.

The sensation of this pretty picture,
Gives her pure bliss.
Pouring her heart and thoughts into this picture.
And smiling as she starts to see black.

Over a hundred glides from her sharp paintbrush,
But that isn't enough
Sadly she knows she needs to stop,
If she does not want anyone to suspect.

She cleans her weapon.
She smirks and wraps the art in white,
Enjoying the pain.
Then she lays down, closing her eyes, and falls into a dreamless sleep, hating herself.