She paints smiles on people's faces
But she can't paint one for herself

Day by day, she tries
Everyday, she fails

Until she came up with an idea
of painting her last canvas
She wants it to be memorable
and so she did it

Not with a brush, but with a razor
Not on a paper, but on her wrist
And the colors were not pastels
nor watercolors, but it was red.
It was blood.
And it spilled
Til it was too much.

True enough, her masterpiece
was remembered
It was seen as a symbol of sin by some,
some say it's simply tragic
some try to understand
--and for her that's art--
Something that tells a story
sad and beautiful at the same time

*The painter wanted to be a masterpiece
And so
she became one