So basically, I asked myself the question: what if Taylor Swift was brown

But actually, like I can't believe I finished this song so quickly; I was sure it was gonna be another Aberdeen situation, but it went well, considering how many new things I tried in this. Then again, less of this is new than was new for Aberdeen so idk. I'm learning. I'm growing. I'm living my best life in my matching lululemon joggers.

Also—not the right place to share, exactly, but—I commissioned a portrait of me and my girlypop kissing from Kaimecha and we're super excited to share it when it's done. Also Emma says hi, everyone. 🪻💜

Lyrics

The invitation came on heavy, cream paperA world away from attic rooms where dust motes used to waiverWe painted by a single light—no caper, just the caperOf trying to make rent while planting a forgotten romanceAnd I remember you, your palette stormA twilight bruise of ultramarine, a genius taking form

You mixed the air with lavender and ground-down charcoal, wiseYour canvas was a wilderness where breathless things grew brightAnd I offered you my cadmium, but you just closed your weary eyesAnd said, "Keep it""You’ll need the light for the pretty lies they’ll buy from you"

And now my wall's hung with wisteria, a violet, choking waterfall of praiseA creeping, curated vine that climbs and blocks out all my days, and theCompliments are peony, far too heavy, far too scented redBlooming in the place where masterpieces lay to bedI wear a crown of laurel, but it’s woven with a thornA funeral bouquet for the genius cultivated, never born

They hand me trophies shaped like lilies, cold and pristine whiteI stand on stages bathed in the spot—hydrangea-blue—lightAnd talk of "the old struggle," but it's sanitized, politeAn arrangement of the hunger truer lived with you, and I

Sell a million canvases of poppies, bold and deepWhile I dream of your last charcoal sketch, the promises we leaveFor the garden of potential that a mellow frost would sweepI saw a flawless orchid— but the world was asleep

And now my wall's hung with wisteria, a violet, choking waterfall that's gushing, crushing me with praiseA creeping, curated vine that climbs and blocks out all my days, andCompliments, they weigh on me—far too heavy, far too scented redBlooming where your masterpieces never leftSo I wear a crown of laurel but it's woven with the thornsThat success and accolade impart 'cause I kept straight to form

We were hungry in the studio, we couldn't pay our rent, so IDid what I had to do and sold my art for penceIt's not my hands that made it; I sold my self-respectBut you stayed true, hydrangea-blue, when I just call, collectAnd you're still being you, and hungry as you wereWhile I wear a crown of floral, but it’s woven full of burrs

Sometimes, in my greenhouse, the air grows bitter, staleThe wisteria then twists into a ghostly veilThen a thousand forget-me-nots, begin to whisper and to wailAnd from the soil of my compromise, your ghost sees me go pale

'Cause I’d burn every orchid, every rare and hothouse bloomTo see your hand just once more tracing light in our unflowered room

So I plant nightshade in the shadows of my guiltA border of deep poison on the fortune I have built, and inEvery sprawling garden, in every bright bouquetThere’s a single, empty vase where your self-portrait could've stayed

_Survivor's Guilt (6D, Draft 2, M_01).wavSurvivor's Guilt (6D, Draft 3, M_01).wav

Notes: IS THAT A FUCKING POP. yes it was, but I corrected it before posting so now yall never gonna know.