“She paints a pretty picture, But her story has a twist, Her paintbrush is a razor, and her canvas is her wrist,so she paints her pretty picture, in colour of blood red,while using her sharp pain brush, she finds herself dead,Her pretty picture is fading, quite slowly on her arm, the blood does not race through her, she can no longer cause harm, She painted a pretty picture, But her picture had a twist, Her mind was her razor, and her heart was her wrist.”