*Created in response to recent media coverage
Crawling toward August covered in blood,
the lows I have make celebrating the highs tough.
Perpetua, all mother, leader of the poisoned youth,
they keep telling me I should get sober, maybe it’s the truth.
I feel many things and none of them slightly,
ragtag regrets from my past have come back to bite me.
I used to be afraid to express my pain,
but to keep such profound suffering to myself would be a shame.
Eight years now I’ve been on top of my game,
they ask me how and I always say the same thing:
being true to myself is the only way I’ve ever gotten paid,
bloody raw honesty gets me out of every fight unscathed.
I’m too beautiful to break and too real to hate,
I used to want to die, but with angels by my side.
I’ve turned my nightmares into diamonds and a big steak,
I guess it’s true what they say, we’re all sinners and saints.
Corporate bloodsuckers want to take advantage of my creative nature,
that’s fine, I have enough magic for us all to make some paper.
What I fear most is the white-collared treasonous behavior,
I cut their checks, they rewrite my history books —into something that suits the savior.
They admit I was slain but say it’s the trade I made for the fame,
hope is a graveyard of bitter disdain.
I see them but they don’t see me,
maybe it’s the black veil over my face, but we couldn’t be more different, polar opposites down to our genetic make.
I see you, do you see me?
I tell them not to worry, through my perfect pearly whites I lie in ways that are unnerving.
They’re made from camouflage and greed, I’m hidden behind black lace to disguise my misery.
I hope the people who did me wrong have trouble sleeping at night, they should be disgraced,
though it’s unlikely those old memories haunt them in the same way.
Right now I’m being nice but one day everybody’s gotta pay,
I burn without warming, the blood in my veins is boiling.
But inside my chest is a winter storm warning.
Tabloids say I’m icy, I pray they break their teeth when they bite me.
My heart's so cold I could freeze liquor on it,
80 proof heartache, hungover for life but I like it.
They tell me I’m unholy, but those perverts would do anything to get their hands on me.
They’ve tried to tie me up on the stake, even nailed me to their cross,
if you ask me, a sick part of them got off.
It got so bad I even called God,
praying while they’re edging to soak me in kerosene and light the cross.
They’re itching to set fire to the base of my tree,
Salem witch trials more like a synapses of my life story.
My critics are so unoriginal, I swear to their god they bore me,
I only have ten more eyelashes to pull and this grief is engorging.
My art has always been a mirrored maze created for the reader's enjoyment,
I can’t help if they’re offended by it, no ability for self-reflection.
From the inside out they’re dying,
struggling to reach down deep and tame their inner beast,
running from their own shadow following them down a dimly lit street.
I shouldn’t care if they heal or eat, after all these years of violently condemning me.
I see with my eagle eye that they’re just little ants afraid of originality,
they asked me what I beg for when I think no one can hear me,
but really they should ask me what I beg for when I feel God near me.
Mistress of death, I hope they never have to feel my wrath.
I am made of cruel beauty but I lack mercy and tact,
my success was made from tragic habits,
I can't stop creating art from my suffering,
I can feel things getting bad again.
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