She reaches for her paintbrush, it’s time again to paint.
She holds it close to her canvas, not using any restraint,
All the while keeping her expression quite quaint.
This painting shall be her finest, her most magnificent vignette.
She paints in crimson red, lustfully meticulous as if
outlining her silhouette.
This final piece she will fail to ever regret.
Almost now complete, she paints her last stroke.
She saves the best for last, as her finale can all but be
revoke.
But now comes a twist you won’t believe, as if it were a gruesome
joke.
She painted a gorgeous picture upon a canvas, you see?
But her brush was but a blade, her canvas but the wrist of she.
The crimson paint she used was but her liquid life she
wished to free.
But now her lovely painting fades,
For her arm holds no more blood to keep it vivid in shades.
Forevermore, she continues to fade ‘til nothing else
remains.
But now, you see, there is but one more twist.
For her mind was really the razor
And her heart was but her wrist.
