7. Pretty Is A Death Sentence

May 30

Trigger Warning:

INTRO
One in three girls.
One in five boys.
That's how many were sexually abused before eighteen.
I read that in a book called Complex PTSD.
This song is for Sarah.
And the other quiet ones who carry a broken memory.

PRE-CHORUS
I don't remember what I don't remember.
Just this sick feeling here.
Even if nothing else happened —
this was enough to unmake me.
Either way, I never recovered.

VERSE 1
I am 7.
I am 10.
I am fifteen.
Same lecture.
He cuts my hair in the bathroom —
scissors scrape my neck like a secret.
Not allowed to wear deodorant.
No tight clothes.
Dress like a boy.
Avoid the male gaze.
Mom wants curls.
I fight her hands.
She thinks I hate her.
I'm just scared.
I want to be invisible.
I want him to stop telling me, I'll end up in a ditch.

CHORUS
Daddy said: "Pretty gets raped.
Pretty gets left in a ditch.
Don't draw attention to yourself"
Pretty is a death sentence.
I learned to be ugly. I still got raped.
Pretty is a death sentence.

VERSE
We were on a road trip, Mom and brother asleep in their seats.
I was curled on the floorboard behind him.
His hand drifted down from the armrest.
Fingers found my chest.
I froze.
The highway hummed.
The next morning, he asked: "We okay?"
My mouth said yes. That's what he trained me to say.

VERSE PT 2
I left home at eighteen.
The first rape arrived without pain.
Maybe the roofie.
Maybe it wasn't my first time.
Maybe my body already knew something my mind scrubbed out.
After that, I collected assault like evidence —
ten different men that took what they wanted.
I never died, though I wanted to.
I became an escort.
At least I'd get paid if they were going to take it anyway.
Afraid to say no to anyone, I just opened my legs.

PRE-CHORUS
I don't remember what I don't remember.
Just this sick feeling here.
Even if nothing else happened —
this was enough to unmake me.
Either way, I never recovered.

BRIDGE
I let them take me one by one.
The ditch was the hollow where Sarah died.
I made a home in the dark he made.
I was the ditch all along.

OUTRO
I am not pretty for anyone.
I am not small anymore.
The ditch is empty.
He doesn't own my body.
Pretty was never the problem.
His eyes were.

Loui Crow

I make music, practice mirror work, sometimes I do somatic rage fits, and small forms of magick that help me stay present and kind while things change.

I write songs for myself, my inner child, and for the woman I am becoming.
I work through old patterns, grief, and survival habits as I notice them loosening.

Sometimes I write as the Crow — that's my ideal self. Direct, unattached, protective, grounded in something older than my fear. Other voices come through too. The snake. The spider. The fly. The ghosts are the false selves I created to survive. I write as all of them, for my own self-hypnosis — unpacking who I've been so that my son can fill his days with joy and I can stop being such a reactive parent. I'm in the middle of it all. I just keep showing up.

I use Suno for vocals and instrumentals — the vocals are seeded from my own voice. I'm a disabled veteran and a stay-at-home mom.

Over the last year, I climbed an emotional ladder I didn't know I was on. Many of my earlier releases were the scream — my depression, anger, insecurity.

The last album that came out of that climb is called "Mirror, Mirror off the Wall." It starts with depression and ends with gratitude.

Much of what lives here carries the influence of Louise Hay and Abraham Hicks, especially the idea that my body listens to my thoughts — and that where I place my attention, my life follows.

I leave breadcrumbs in case anyone resonates.

Take what feeds you.
Leave the rest for the birds.

I am molting.
You are welcome here.

https://louicrow.com

7. Pretty Is A Death Sentence

6. Cringed Kisses

8. Lecture (Don't Tell Your Mom)

louicrow@gmail.com