One cut, two cut, three cut.
Four.
She paints a pretty picture,
In a color that's blood red,
Her paintbrush is her razor,
The canvas her wrist.
She tells her Crimson story
In hopes that pain will fade away.
One cut, two cut, three cut.
Four.
And the lines grow longer,
Deeper and farther.
She hopes to cut the lies away.
Because to her she's the canvas,
No more,
No less.
And the scars from her art is her dowry.
If only that was the last.
Crimson streaks streaming past.
Past all the pain and washing out with all the color.
One cut, two cut, three cut.
Four.
But no. That was not.
Five cut, six cut, seven cut,
Eight.
And she keeps on painting. As if it is an agility race.
As if her worth is based on how well she can cut.
Nine cut, ten cut, eleven cut. Twelve.
Now she is dead. Stuck in a grave.
She painted a pretty picture as it ended with a twist.
Her mind was her razor and her heart was her wrist.
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