I wrote this album inside my own skin. Every track is a scene I lived, a silence I swallowed, a wound I pressed into sound. Sometimes I am the one harmed. Sometimes I am the one who harms. I don’t separate them. This album lives in that tension. (Scroll down to listen)

It covers everything I’ve been afraid to name: sexual coercion and trauma, grooming, roofies, panic attacks on loop, sex work, scars inked into my arms, suicidal ideation, the partners who stayed, the friends I lost, the harm I caused, the part of me that became the abuser.

✨ Note: This page is still being built. I’ll be adding the full lyrics and blogs for each track here over time. For now, the album is live — the confessions are out in the world, and this space will keep unfolding alongside them. (Streaming on all platforms)

1. Gorgeous

I’m a virgin. I trust him. He slips something in my drink, and I feel it hit — my body isn’t gone, but it’s not mine either. I can move just enough to follow his commands, not enough to resist them. My voice is missing, my choice erased in real time. By the time I stumble home, I’m late for curfew and already carrying the shame for what he did. This track lives in the aftermath, where memory itself feels stolen, and the story of my first time is written in someone else’s hand..
The voices play back in my head — she said yes to the drink, why’d she go upstairs, hope she doesn’t ruin his future. I bleed alone, scrub the stain, starve myself into silence. I learn to go limp, to say yes before they take, to answer the door with a knife just in case.

But “gorgeous” doesn’t stay theirs. It becomes my word, my scar, my vow. Gorgeous is what rises out of the body bent. Gorgeous is what stares back in the mirror when I choose to keep living. Gorgeous is my resurrection.

2. On My Knees

I freeze. My body folds, my mouth locked, my breath thin, my stomach swallowing every no. The tape runs in my head — she didn’t say no, she was asking for it, she’s a tease — until I start to believe silence is safer than truth. I laugh to calm him, cry in the car after. I tuck my pain into a purse with my keys, smooth my voice into something he needs. They call it love. I call it fear. On my knees, I’m praying it’ll pass, begging it’ll be fast, learning to disappear so I can survive. But in that posture I start to study. In their throne I start building doors. This song is the sound of silence as survival — and the moment I realize I wasn’t kneeling. I was waiting to rise.

3. Remember I Am Him

I take his voice into my throat. A father. A photographer. A predator. His wife is asleep upstairs, his daughter in bed, while he builds a basement temple out of skin. The lens becomes law — he tells me where to stand, when to fold, how to breathe. I freeze like a deer in headlights, bracing, still breathing, quiet. That’s the pose. He clicks the shutter and turns my silence into glow, edits my pause to look like consent. I write the song in his cadence, so you can hear the rot in the rose, the way poison speaks when it calls itself human.

4. Grip (God Is The Gag)

We laugh in the break room while bruises bloom under turtlenecks. He changes the rules mid-sentence, and I fold myself smaller to fit. Silence becomes the price of my pulse. He tells me he’ll slit her throat, tells me I’m next. I think she ghosted me, but she was protecting me. God becomes the gag, worship the weapon. This track carries the choke of obedience—and the moment I learn to write the ending myself. The grip is gone.

5. Enough

Ten assaults before left me limp and silent. This time I move. I shove him off, my hand reaching for steel. My body braces, my voice finally sharpens into no. Enough is the night I stop swallowing fear, the night I grip the blade and mean it. This song is survival snapping from stillness into fight.

6. Orchid Skin

A Tinder bad date, cocaine sweat, a laugh too loud. Panic stacks until I can’t tell if I’m here or reliving. My dress snags, my jaw drums, my throat ticks like a clock. Flashbacks nest inside flashbacks until pretty feels like prison. I do what he says, count to sunrise, puke him out of my doorway. Then it’s me and the mirror, palms on the sink, right eye steady. Orchid Skin is the body in panic, PTSD hitting breath after breath until I can anchor back inside it.

7. UNiCORN

Rats chew the walls, mold spreads on the ceiling, eviction stamped on our door. PTSD rattles my ribs, but he stays, steady in the noise. He hums through the brokenness, makes breakfast feel like poems. He asks, “Do you want to? Is this okay?” and waits for the answer. My body, trained for fear, slowly learns to re-enter itself. Sex isn’t seatbelt anymore, it’s trust. He holds space through pregnancy, poverty, panic. He reads the flinch, checks the doors, slows until I can soften. This track is a love song to the one who stayed, the one who made safety holy, the one who made consent art. Unicorn maps the storms and stands as lighthouse. With him, I breathe.

8. Skin Is Mine

I wake in the dark and my body remembers. Not who I was, but where I was tender. They marked me without asking, so I answer in ink. I blackout the bruises, stack black where the silence screamed. Every line becomes armor, every sting a ritual. This time the pain waits for my yes. Gloves on, needle humming, I stay in my body and let the ache tether me instead of steal me. Ghosts wrote in bruises — I rewrite the line. This skin isn’t their billboard. This skin is mine.

9. Flinch

I count exits—pavement, bottle, rope, pills. The thoughts loop until I almost unwrap them like gifts. But I flinch, and flinching means I’m still alive. The rake becomes my witness, the mirror my battleground. Strangers call it crazy when I kiss my reflection, but I was trained for self-rejection, and healing in public feels holy. This track is the moment recoil sharpens into resistance, where silence breaks into scream, where I stop planning ways to die and start inventing ways to stay.

10. Envelope

I learn the sound a zipper makes before a man forgets my face. When the first one offers cash, I take it. Some want moans, some want praise — I fake both and keep an eye on the exit. A ring on his hand, a crayon drawing by the fridge, her perfume still on the rug. I bend where she kissed him this morning and fold into silence. Every move is survival math: voice thinned, body numb, envelope on the counter. Some touch soft, some choke. One skipped the script and I bled. I walk out quiet, like I was never there, but the cracks follow me home.

11. Marrow

She lives in my joints, in the way I walk slow, in the hunger I wear like a second skin. She flinches, she bends, she plays small so the room stays calm. I carry her in my pelvis, in my bones, until shame feels like marrow. This track is the burial. I bite the leash, torch the script, spit her out like rot. I lay her down, seal the gate, and rise without her. Marrow is the eulogy for the girl who kept me safe by staying silent — and the song where I finally move.

12. I Hit the Dog

He strangles me, threatens me, makes faith a leash. But what breaks me most is the moment I break too. The dog’s head snaps against my nose and my hand lashes before I think. Violence spills out of me, and guilt scorches everything after. His eyes mirror the man I swore I’d never be. I never strike him again, but I carry that sound in my spine. This track is confession, not excuse — proof that I don’t only hold victimhood, I hold harm too. Writing it is how I stop the cycle, how I keep that shadow from passing on.

13. Why Does He Do That?

Bancroft wrote the guidebook. I wrote the lived version. He dumps the meal I cooked, shoves me to the floor, swears off porn while I watch the screen. He hides cocaine, wipes his phone, leaves flowers after threats. He calls it love while the cage tightens. He says I’m too sensitive, says I’m the curse, says I’ll rot in hell if I move on. Calm like a priest while I fall apart, rage waiting under the surface. Every line the way abuse speaks, the way it rewrites the room until even my memory gaslights me back into place.

14. I Am the Abuser

The mirror turns and it’s me in his silhouette. I yell, accuse, twist his silence into proof. I make devotion a sin, turn kindness into traps. I throw suspicion like knives, choke out truths I never saw. My jealousy drags ghosts into the room until love feels like war. His father whispers the words I don’t want to hear — that girl is abusing you. This track is my confession without alibi. I name the predator in me so it can’t nest in shadow.

15. She Is Joy

I walk into the courtroom and file her like a death notice. Sarah buried. Marrow burned down. The martyr gone in her paper gown. I look in the mirror and say my own name: Joy. This track is the manifesto of embodiment. No more splitting, no more silence as safety. I claim my hips, my laugh, my full form. I light the song like a prayer and kiss the page. She is Joy. And I live here now.

16. Trusted You

This song is about betrayal by someone who should have been safe. At fifteen, I was too young to name it, too afraid to say no. The touch wasn’t violent, but it was still a theft — of safety, of trust, of self. The lyrics trace how silence became armor, how shame set in, how I coped with bulimia and self-erasure afterward. Trusted You closes the album with the wound that still echoes: not the scars left by obvious harm, but the quiet devastation of a trust broken too soon.


This is the world I made in GORGEOUS. Not polished, not polite — confessions stitched into music so they can’t stay silent.

Note: I’ll be adding the full lyrics for each track here soon. For now, every song is live and streaming on all major platforms — Spotify, YouTube, Apple Music, TikTok, Pandora, Snapchat, and more. However you listen, you can step into the album.

Thank you for listening. (Keep scrolling for lyrics)