Song about the creation of something bigger than the abuser - the problem itself.
I was born a different breedâ
swamp lilies and pretty things,
shiny stuff and Hellfire too.
I'm just like me and I'm just like you,
a little bit chameleon,
a little let's-just-see-what-fits,
a little bit of everything,
Stitched up in bits.
I like fury songs,
of scream & horror,
but also the girly things that make men bothered.
I suppose I find the irony amusing
It was his red-pill pipeline that led me to extremism
Call me a fucking feminist
I'll embrace it
Gonna make him rue the day
he ever fucked that way.
For he is just a simpleton,
a fucking balding whore,
who likes to think his cock's so big
It drags across the floor.
I've got news for you, buddy,
with that hairline and broken balls,
you've already been told by God
no one wants no more.
I hope you fucking rot, cunt,
from the head to the floor.
May the next hooker that you pay off
Remind you you're alone.
If men are gonna pay that kind of money,
fuck, I'll do anything.
Bend me over, fuck me up.
I like it a little rough,
but I'll charge you extra
to make me wet enough
to think about the touch of man,
the slimy paws on body.
I hate the thought
of ever loving another somebody
So I'll put your name in a jar,
carry it around my neck,
keep you rattling against my chest
until I'm finished with you yet.
I'll take you to the graveyard.
Bury your name among the dead.
Hope you're having fun
being scared of little jars
while you fuck up giving head.
Cus I've got one brewing.
The poison already stewing.
Something bitter.
Something dark.
Something made to show you
the magic is my fucking trademark.
A HEX to call your name out.
Something waiting on the deck.
These cards were never stacked in your favour.
I've been through many eras.
I've seen broken people disappear
while everybody clipped their wings.
I'm not ashamed to say
that I recognise suicide eyes.
So answer me this riddle:
How much can happen to a woman
before survival becomes a crime?
What does it mean
when a woman can be held,
her throat pinned against a bed,
while the person who calls it love
screams it's in her head?
"Why don't you just wake up?"
"Why can't you be more convenient?"
"Why can't you just stay put
and be more obedient?"
Beneath it all:
You will stay because I say.
Your no becomes an accusation.
Suddenly autonomy means
you create hostile situations.
Surelyâ
surelyâ
a man cannot do that
and simply walk away.
Can he?
The day the anarchy awakes.
All from one series of events.
Where I was told
that I no longer can choose,
that no matter what I ever did
all I'll do is lose.
They promise:
one day.
One day there'll be consequences.
One day somebody will listen.
One day the evidence will be enough.
One day. One day. One day.
So I put it to the court of public opinion:
come listen. I'll sing you his song.
You tell me what I know.
Funny thing about one day:
women still have to survive
today.
Meanwhile monsters walk free,
whatever the fuck they're permitted to be.
And everybody asks:
"How did nobody stop him?"
Maybe that's the wrong fucking question.
So I call on my witches.
I call on the whores.
I call on the meek and mild
hiding behind doors.
I call the difficult women.
The angry ones.
The loud.
The ones who learned to disappear
when big footsteps came around.
Come out.
Come out.
I think we've hidden long enough.
Call me hysterical, extreme,
difficult, obscene.
Call me the bitch.
Call me the witch.
If what I say offends you,
good. It should.
Now do something about it.
Just make sure you fucking call me
when the revolution speaks.
Because something has to change.
From police,
to hospitals,
to courtrooms,
to the systems they arrange.
To every piece of culture that taught:
"Her survival is her responsibility.
What happened isn't ours to undo."
No.
Strip the fucking wallpaper.
Drag the furniture outside.
Open every goddamn birdcage.
Let some ugly fucking daylight inside.
Everything needs a brand-new coat.
And if nobody wants the job?
Fine.
Hand me the brush.
These are the walls
that I will tend to.
You thought HEX meant
I was coming for you.
Oh, Stumpy.
You still think
you're the fucking story.
That's adorable.
You were a chapter.
You were a symptom,
just something to build the plot in.
You made me look beneath the soil.
What I found was bigger than you,
older than you,
rotten before we were born.
So no.
I'm not coming for you.
I'm coming for every cage called protection,
every silence called respect,
every wound called complicated,
every frightened woman called hysterical instead.
Oh, Tree
You were stupid enough
to hand a witch
a fucking match.