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.