Pretty Picture
She paints a pretty picture,
But the story has a twist.
Her paintbrush is a razor,
And her canvas is her wrist.
She paints her pretty picture,
In a color that's blood red.
While using her sharp pain
brush,
She finally ends up dead.
Her pretty picture's fading,
Quite slowly on her arm.
The blood is not racing through
her,
She can no longer do herself
harm.
She painted her pretty picture,
But her picture had a twist.
You see, her mind was her
razor,
And her heart was her wrist.