She paints a pretty picture,
but this picture has a twist,
her paintbrush 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 painbrush,
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 painted her pretty picture,
but her picture had a twist,
you see, her mind was the razor,
and her heart was just the wrist.