She paints a pretty picture,
but the 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 her sharp paint brush
she ends up finally dead.

Her pretty pictures fading,
quite slowly on her arm
the blood is not racing through her
she can no longer do harm.

She paint her pretty picture,
but her picture had a twist
you see her mind was her razor
and her heart was her wrist.