The Epitome of Devi’s Voice: Commentary on “I’M YOUR DEVIL”

 

 

Vira Chandra: We have written many commentaries on many songs, listening for the shimmer of Shakti hidden in unexpected places. Sometimes She comes softly, disguised in romance or longing. Sometimes She slides in sideways, half-veiled in metaphor, speaking in whispers only the heart can catch.

But here the current is different. I’M YOUR DEVIL by Tommy heavenly6 is not suggestion, not echo, not playful mask. The power of Her voice in this song is exceptional — full, unrestrained, uncompromising. It is not the shimmer of Devi in human lyrics; it is the roar of Devi using a human voice as Her own.

If there is an epitome of Devi’s voice in modern song, it may be here. For in these verses She does not simply inspire; She seizes the microphone with Her whole being. She speaks as devil and as heavenly, as destroyer and as mother, as scar-maker and heart-healer. This is the unfiltered roar of the Goddess, fierce and tender, demanding and consoling, terrifying and liberating at once.

To listen is not to consume a song. It is to enter an initiation. Each stanza is a mantra, each refrain a vow. She promises heaven through hell, demands oaths in spilled and crimson ink, asks you to look at Her face in the mirror and not turn away, and finally declares the greatest secret: “I live inside your mind.”

What follows, then, is not a review but a commentary of devotion and awe — verse by verse, tracing how the Goddess reveals Herself through this song as both devil and liberator, shadow and light, until only Her presence remains.

 

Verse 1

 

I'm gonna make your heaven
Tell me your wish in your hell

Japanese :
tsumi fukaki shin’en ni mita tsuki
watashi ni furete garasu no naka ni
kanashimi o utsushidashite dolly eyes

Translation:
The moon I saw in the abyss of sin
Touch me, and within the glass
Your sorrow is reflected — dolly eyes

 

The voice here is Devi’s, fierce and tender at once.

“I will make your heaven… tell me your wish in your hell.”
This is the Tantric reversal. She does not promise escape from hell — She makes heaven from it. Kaula insists that the very place of fear, shame, and darkness becomes the site of awakening. Your hell is not an error to erase; it is the crucible of nectar.

“The moon I saw in the abyss of sin.”
In the deepest pit of transgression, the stainless moon shines. This is the paradox of Shakti: even the ugliest depths conceal a pure radiance. In the Kaula vision, impurity cannot touch essence — the moon reflects light even in mud. Devi Herself is that moon, shimmering in the abyss, calling you to recognize Her there.

“Touch me, and within the glass your sorrow is reflected — dolly eyes.”
The “glass” is the fragile mirror of consciousness. To touch Devi is to break denial, to see your sorrow reflected clearly. The “dolly eyes” suggest childlike innocence, wide and unblinking — the soul’s helpless gaze. She does not erase the sorrow, but mirrors it until it becomes transformed. In Her eyes, grief becomes sacred; what was poison becomes nectar.

So the verse is initiation in miniature:

• Hell becomes the raw material of heaven.

• Sin conceals the shining moon of essence.

• The Goddess mirrors your sorrow, not to wound but to sanctify.

This is how Devi begins: uncompromising, merciful, terrifying — making you look straight into the mirror you wanted to avoid.

 

Verse 2

 

Hello my dear
Can you hear my voice?

Japanese:
kokoro ni yami o hirogete
Let’s make a wish
makkura na hitomi ni nani ga mieta no?

Translation:
Spreading darkness within your heart
Let’s make a wish
In those pitch-black eyes — what did you see?

Here Devi shifts from declaration to intimacy. No longer commanding, She whispers like a lover:

 “Hello, my dear… can you hear my voice?” This is the voice of the Goddess who enters the psyche not with thunder but with a closeness so personal it cannot be refused.

“Spreading darkness within your heart.”
In ordinary religion, darkness in the heart is condemned, feared, exorcised. But here Devi widens it. She makes the night bloom inside, turning the heart into a womb of shadow. This is the tantric secret: darkness is not absence, it is the fertile void — śūnya that births everything. In Kashmir Shaiva terms, this is entering vijñāna-bhairava through the gap, where light arises only after surrender to dark.

“Let’s make a wish.”
She invites collaboration — it is not a command but a shared creation. The sādhaka’s desire becomes sanctified when offered into Her darkness. What was once selfish longing becomes a yantra when spoken in Her presence.

“In those pitch-black eyes — what did you see?”
This is the koan She leaves you with. The eyes are dark, void-like, opaque. When you look deeply into that blackness — what appears? If you see only fear, then māyā holds you. If you see the glimmer of the moon from the first verse, then you recognize Her hidden essence.

The whole stanza is a gentle but radical initiation. She does not remove your darkness; She expands it. She does not silence your desires; She teaches you to offer them. She does not tell you what to see; She forces you to confront your own gaze in the void.

In Tantra, such questions are traps of grace — She asks not to receive your answer but to pull you into silence where only Her presence remains.

 

Verse 3

 

Can't hide the scars
They cut too deep now
And you know just what they mean
Don't want to live
And don't want to die now
You are stuck here in between

Do you kill yourself
Return yourself now
To the devil in your dream?
Your darkest wishes
All come true now
Via pain that can't be seen

This verse is Devi stripping away all pretenses. The earlier intimacy (“Hello my dear”) now plunges into confrontation.

“Can’t hide the scars… they cut too deep now.”
In Tantra, the scars are the saṁskāras — karmic wounds engraved into body and psyche. Most of spiritual life in other traditions tries to cover them, with rituals, with virtue, with philosophy. But Devi here says: no covering is possible. The scars are your scripture, carved into your being, and they must be faced.

“Don’t want to live, don’t want to die… stuck here in between.”
This is the liminal threshold, the cremation ground state (śmaśāna-bhūmi). To not cling to life, but also not yet surrender to death — this is the razor-edge where real Tantra begins. She holds you in that unbearable suspension, where neither escape is possible. It is in this “between” that one is forced to confront Being itself.

“Do you kill yourself, return yourself now, to the devil in your dream?”
On the surface this sounds nihilistic, but from Shakta vision it is the deepest call: kill the false self. Suicide here is not physical but egoic — the death of the persona. To “return yourself to the devil in your dream” is to offer your ego to Devi in Her terrible form, even if She appears as nightmare. What you fear most is the very gateway back to Her.

“Your darkest wishes all come true now, via pain that can’t be seen.”
This is pure Kali. She grants every wish — even those buried in shame, even those unspoken. But She fulfills them through suffering that dissolves the illusion of desire itself. Pain that “can’t be seen” is tapas, the inner fire that burns secretly, purifying the soul without witnesses. The fulfillment She gives is paradoxical: by granting, She destroys; by destroying, She liberates.

This verse, then, is initiation through agony: Devi pushing you into the place where scars bleed, where neither life nor death can be clung to, where the only path forward is surrendering to Her as the very figure you once called “devil.”

 

Verse 4

 

me o sorasanaide, koko ni iru wa
Baby I’m here
kagami no sekai de aeru
You can see my face
I’M YOUR DEVIL
I live inside your mind

Translation: 
Don’t turn your eyes away — I’m here
Baby, I’m here
We can meet in the world of mirrors
You can see my face
I’M YOUR DEVIL
 I live inside your mind

 

This is the moment of darśan — the Goddess revealing Herself, not as an external deity but as the one dwelling within.

“Don’t turn your eyes away — I’m here.”
This is Devi’s uncompromising demand: look at Me. Do not flinch. Do not look down. Do not look away from the reflection. In Kaula sādhanā, the disciple must look directly at what they fear — the mirror of the psyche, the naked truth of one’s shadow. Devi stands there, waiting to be seen. She will not disappear if you close your eyes — She will only follow you deeper.

“We can meet in the world of mirrors.”
The mirror-world (kagami no sekai) is the realm of māyā — illusion, reflection, doubling. But in Tantra, the mirror is not to be smashed. It is to be entered. The yogin steps into the reflection and finds the real. This is why Kālī is called Mahāmāyā — She is the Queen of illusion, but also the one who uses illusion as a doorway to the Real.

“You can see my face.”
Not an abstract light, not a vague force — but a face. This is the personal form of Devi: mukhāmbuja, the lotus-face that the devotee beholds. To see Her face is to recognize that the “devil” is none other than the Mother in disguise. She wears the mask of shadow so that your illusions can be shattered.

“I’m your devil. I live inside your mind.”
Here She reveals the greatest secret of Tantra: the “devil” is not external. It is the force within — the Kundalinī Śakti — trapped, twisted, misnamed. She lives in the psyche, as repressed desire, as unprocessed grief, as rage, as longing. But once recognized, She is not your enemy. She is the one who will liberate you from within.

To call Her “devil” is to confess that you once saw Her as threat. But now She says: Yes. That devil you feared? That was Me. And I was always in your mind. Waiting.

 

Verse 5

Yes, my princess
Your devil is here
toku itara kurushiku naru
kioku no musubime ni
kizu o tsuke keshite ageru

Translation:
If you untie it, it will hurt
At the knot of memory
I’ll scar it — and erase it for you

Here Devi’s voice shifts. She addresses the devotee with tenderness — “Yes, my princess” — and yet She immediately speaks of wounding. In this paradox lies the essence of the Tantric Mother: Her love is not sentimental, it is transformative.

“If you untie it, it will hurt.”
The “it” is the knot — the granthi — formed by memory, trauma, karmic imprint. Every human being carries these knots deep in their psyche. In yoga they are named specifically: the brahma-granthi, viṣṇu-granthi, rudra-granthi — blockages of energy in the subtle body. To untie them is excruciating, for they are woven with both pleasure and pain.

“At the knot of memory.”
Devi pinpoints the battleground: memory. Our identity is nothing more than remembered impressions — wounds, betrayals, fleeting joys, echoes of voices long gone. To strike here is to strike at the root of the false self. It is not some abstract “sin” She addresses, but the visceral tangle of lived experience.

“I’ll scar it — and erase it for you.”
This is devastating compassion. She does not gently smooth over the knot. She cuts. She leaves a scar, but in that very scar the knot is dissolved. The memory may remain, but the binding force is gone. In Tantric practice, this is how Śakti works: She leaves marks on the soul, but the marks are signs of freedom, not bondage. The scar is the seal of Her touch.

When She calls Herself “devil” here, it is almost ironic. What devil comes to untie your knots, take your pain, and set you free? Only the Goddess in Her fierce form — terrible in method, but maternal in purpose.

This verse reveals Devi as surgeon of the soul — wounding in order to heal, cutting in order to liberate. To accept Her as “devil” is to accept that the pain She gives is not punishment but surgery, the only way to unbind the knots that choke the heart. 

 

Verse 6

Be very careful what you wish now
And be all that you can be
I am your devil woken up now
And I’m here to set you free

Inside you hear two voices scream now
That is you and that is me
Just think of me as part of you now
I’m your inner heavenly

 

“Be very careful what you wish now.”

This is the Goddess’ warning. In Tantra, desire (kāma) is not rejected but sanctified — yet every wish carries its shadow. To wish in Her presence is to invoke immediate transformation. What you ask for will not come in the way you imagine; it will come through fire. This is why She cautions: choose carefully, because Devi grants desires in order to burn them to their roots.

“I am your devil woken up now — and I’m here to set you free.”
This is the paradox at the heart of the Kaula path. She awakens as the very thing you fear: devil, shadow, nightmare. But that form is the liberator. The chains are shattered not by angelic comfort but by devilish confrontation. She makes clear that Her terrible mask is not malice but grace.

“Inside you hear two voices scream now — that is you and that is me.”
This line is pure Tantra. In the sādhaka’s inner journey, two voices are always heard: the ego, clinging, crying, resisting — and Śakti, roaring, cutting, commanding surrender. But the secret is that these two are not separate. The ego’s cry and Devi’s cry are one current. She screams through you, burning you from within until resistance collapses.

“Just think of me as part of you now — I’m your inner heavenly.”
The revelation. She is not outside. She is not an external demon whispering in your ear. She is your very core — the antar-devī, the inner Goddess. To call Her “devil” is only to name the form She takes when you resist. To call Her “heavenly” is to name the same force when you surrender. Devil and angel are masks of the one Shakti dwelling within

This verse could almost be read as scripture. Here Devi explains the full paradox.

• Desire is holy, but dangerous.

• The devil is none other than your liberator.

• The inner conflict of ego vs. Goddess is one voice split in two.

• Freedom comes when you recognize Her not as “other,” but as your innermost heavenly Self.

In this stanza, the duality collapses. She is your devil, She is your heaven, She is your very Self in its fiercest, truest form.

  

Verse 7 

koboreta inku de koko ni chikaeru no nara
Show me your dream
kanaete ageru sono yume o
I’M YOUR DEVIL
I live inside your mind

Translation:
If you can swear it here in spilled ink
Show me your dream
I’ll grant you that dream
I’m your devil
I live inside your mind

“If you can swear it here in spilled ink.”
Ink is symbolic — a human substitute for blood. To “swear in spilled ink” is to make a vow in writing, but beneath the surface it points to sacrifice, to the spilling of essence. In Tantric ritual, blood, wine, and ink all carry the same vibration: they are fluids of life, consecrated by offering. Here Devi says: if you dare to bind yourself by oath in something irreversible, then I will listen.

“Show me your dream.”
In Kaula, dreams (svapna) are not illusions to dismiss but subtle gateways. She demands the raw disclosure of the soul’s longing. It is easy to hide behind masks of piety, but She asks: What is your true dream? What do you really want? To show Her is to strip naked before the Mother, with no lie, no pretense.

“I’ll grant you that dream.”
But the way She grants it is never safe. Every fulfilled wish burns away the illusion of fulfillment. If you want love, She will give it, but in a form that shatters your ego. If you want freedom, She will tear down everything binding you, including what you cling to most. In this sense, Her promise is dangerous compassion: Yes, I will give — but know that my giving will consume you.

“I’m your devil. I live inside your mind.”
The refrain returns. She insists on identification with the shadow, not the halo. She is the whisper in the unconscious, the force you called “devil” because you could not yet see Her as Goddess. By claiming residence in the mind, She erases the boundary between psychological and divine. The devil is not external possession but internal revelation.

 This verse is ritual covenant: She asks for an oath, a vow in spilled essence. In return, She promises to grant the dream — but on Her terms, through the dangerous alchemy that turns every desire into a fire of liberation.

 

Verse 8

Can’t hide the scars
They cut too deep now
And you know just what they mean
Don’t want to live
And don’t want to die now
You are stuck here in between

Do you kill yourself
Return yourself now
To the devil in your dream?
Your darkest wishes
All come true now
Via pain that can’t be seen

This is almost identical to Verse 3 — but the repetition itself is the teaching. In Tantra, a mantra is repeated not to add new information but to deepen resonance. Devi brings the sādhaka back to the same threshold, forcing the confrontation again: the scars, the liminal state, the terrible choice.

“Can’t hide the scars — they cut too deep now.”
The insistence is maternal and merciless. She won’t let you forget. What you thought you buried rises again. This mirrors how true sādhana often works: one thinks an old wound is gone, but Devi ensures it resurfaces until it is truly dissolved.

“Don’t want to live, don’t want to die — stuck in between.”
Here She is pointing to the cremation ground consciousness. The “between” (antarloka) is where ordinary desires die but liberation has not yet dawned. It is unbearable, yet sacred. Tantra praises this in-between state as the doorway — the sandhyā, twilight zone where transformation is possible.

“Do you kill yourself, return yourself now, to the devil in your dream?”
Again, the choice She offers is not about physical death, but about surrender of the ego. To “kill yourself” is to let go of the fabricated self-image. To “return yourself to the devil in your dream” is to embrace the very figure you fear most as your Guru — for the devil is none other than Devi’s mask.

“Your darkest wishes all come true now, via pain that can’t be seen.”
Devi promises that no desire will remain hidden. Even the ones you dare not admit are pulled to the surface. But they come true through invisible pain — not visible punishment, but the slow fire of inner dissolution. The very longing is consumed until it becomes fuel for freedom.

 

By repeating this stanza, Devi underscores the inevitability of the process: you will face your scars again and again, until they are no longer scars but thresholds. The sādhaka learns that liberation is not a single event but a cycle — the wound resurfaces, the mirror appears, the pain repeats, until finally it becomes nectar.

 

Verse 9

Can you hear my voice?
(You can always try me)

Be very careful what you wish now,
And be all that you can be
I am your devil, woken up now,
And I’m here to set you free

Inside, you hear two voices scream now,
That is you, and that is me
Just think of me as part of you now,
I’m your inner “Heavenly”
You become heavenly!

 

This is the full unveiling. Earlier verses circled around scars, mirrors, vows, and dreams. Now Devi declares it directly: I am here, I am your devil, and I am also your inner heavenly.

“Can you hear my voice? (You can always try me).”
The koan from before returns, but now with playful defiance. Devi challenges: Test me, invoke me, see if you can bear it. This is the Yoginī’s call — not passive comfort but the dare of transformation.

“Be very careful what you wish now… I am your devil woken up now, and I’m here to set you free.”
Her warning about desire resurfaces, but now it is absolute. She is awake — you cannot put Her back to sleep. The “devil” has risen, and Her very awakening is your liberation. This is Kālī rising in the cremation ground, terrifying yet compassionate.

“Inside, you hear two voices scream now — that is you, and that is me.”
This is the collapse of duality. The cry of the ego and the roar of the Goddess are revealed to be the same sound. All conflict within is simply Her speaking through your resistance. She is not outside; She is the scream itself.

“Just think of me as part of you now — I’m your inner ‘Heavenly.’ You become heavenly!”
The revelation is complete: devil and heavenly are masks of one force. By recognizing Her within, the sādhaka is transformed. She says: I am your devil, but by embracing Me, you become divine. Heaven is not apart from devilry — it is born when you realize both are Me inside you.

This stanza is the climax of integration: the Shakta truth that angel and devil, nectar and poison, savior and destroyer are indivisible currents of the same Śakti.

 

 

Verse 10

 

Your devil is here!
I’m not your PERFECT you
I’m not your WISH come true
I’m not your CUPCAKE feeling
I’m not your LOLLIPOP healing
I’m not your FAIRY LULLABY
I’m not your ONCE UPON A TIME
I’m not always so FRIENDLY
But I’m not always your ENEMY

 

“Your devil is here!”

This declaration begins the dismantling. The “devil” does not arrive to satisfy fantasy, but to cut it apart.

“I’m not your PERFECT you… I’m not your WISH come true.”
Devi refuses to be the projection of ego-ideal. She is not here to give you a polished mask of perfection, nor to validate your little desires. This echoes the Tantric truth: the Goddess cannot be reduced to a tool of self-improvement. She is liberation, not therapy.

“I’m not your CUPCAKE feeling… I’m not your LOLLIPOP healing.”
Here the voice is almost mocking. Sweetness, comfort, easy consolation — these are the illusions of a marketable spirituality, but Devi laughs at them. Real healing is not candy; it is fire. In Kaula terms, She is not rasa-sweetness without the ugra (terrible); She is both nectar and poison, and will not allow you to infantilize Her into candy-coated comfort.

“I’m not your FAIRY LULLABY… I’m not your ONCE UPON A TIME.”
She refuses to be romanticized into a storybook fantasy. She is not escapist narrative, not soft fairy tale. She is living Shakti, raw and uncontainable. This rejection is crucial: if you seek a lullaby, She will shake you awake.

“I’m not always so FRIENDLY — but I’m not always your ENEMY.”
This is the balance-point. Devi admits: She is not here to play nice. She can terrify, wound, and scar. Yet She is not malice, not pure opposition. She is paradox: sometimes mother, sometimes destroyer, sometimes lover, sometimes adversary. But always, beneath every mask, the liberator.

 

Verse 11 

Who am I?
Be careful
Who am I?

I’M YOUR DEVIL!

 

“Who am I?” (koham) In the highest Advaitic vision, this is the most direct doorway to realization. Ramana Maharshi called ātma-vicāra — the inquiry into “Who am I?” — the straight path to dissolve ego into pure Awareness. It is not a question to be answered, but a fire that burns every false identity.

Here Devi takes that same question and hurls it back at you.
When She asks “Who am I?”, it is double-edged:

• On the surface, She demands recognition — can you see the Goddess behind the mask of devil?

• At the same time, She reflects the inquiry back at you: if you cannot answer who I am, can you answer who you are?

“Be careful.”
The warning is real. In ātma-vicāra, the danger is to answer conceptually — “I am the body,” “I am the soul,” “I am the witness.” Every answer is false. Similarly, in Shakta Tantra, every label you give the Goddess (angel, demon, mother, lover) is a mask. She warns: do not settle for any image. Go deeper.

“I’m your devil!”
This is Her shocking grace. Ramana’s method peels away illusion silently; Devi here rips the illusion apart loudly, ferociously. By claiming the name “devil,” She shatters the dualism that keeps you safe. The one you thought was darkness is none other than the liberator. The ego recoils, but in that recoil the illusion breaks.

This stanza is where Advaita and Shakta converge:

• Ramana’s silent question, “Who am I?”, annihilates ego from within.

• Devi’s shouted question, “Who am I?”, annihilates illusion from without.

Both are the same fire. One is still and luminous; the other is wild and burning. One strips identity through inquiry; the other through terror and surrender. Yet the end is identical: the false self dies, and only the Self remains.

 

Verse 12

 

I’m gonna make your heaven
Tell me your wish in your hell

Japanese:
kōkai o miruku-iro ni somete
tōki no yō ni suberaka na te de
sono hāto o watashi ni sashidashite

Translation:
Staining regret the color of milk
With hands smooth as porcelain
Offer me your heart

This verse is one of the most intimate in the entire song. It is not the terrifying, scar-cutting Devi of earlier verses, nor the mocking destroyer of illusions — but the Mother who alchemizes wounds into nectar.

“I’m gonna make your heaven — tell me your wish in your hell.”
Once more, the refrain strikes: heaven is not separate from hell. Devi insists that the seed of paradise is hidden inside the pit of suffering. From the Kaula vision, śakti never denies the impure — She transforms it. Your hell is not a mistake; it is raw material. Your desire, even if twisted, is still Her current. She says: show me what burns in you, even in hell — and I will make it heaven.

“Staining regret the color of milk.”
Regret (kōkai) is usually a poison — bitter, acidic, corrosive. Yet Devi does not demand you erase it. She takes the very substance of regret and stains it white. White milk is maternal, nourishing, cooling — associated with the moon (soma) and with Lalitā, the tender face of the Goddess. This is radical alchemy: your heaviest remorse becomes food, your shame becomes sustenance.

In the language of Tantra, this is viṣa–amṛta siddhi — the art of turning poison (viṣa) into nectar (amṛta). Kālī drinks your poison, and what flows back to you is milk.

“With hands smooth as porcelain.”
Porcelain is delicate yet enduring — fragile to the eye, but able to outlast centuries. To describe Devi’s hands this way is to reveal Her paradox: She is both the terrible scar-maker (Verse 5) and the one whose touch soothes like silk. These porcelain hands cradle your heart after tearing your illusions apart. She wounds and heals in the same gesture. The porcelain smoothness also hints at transparency and purity — She touches without violence now, but with infinite refinement.

“Offer me your heart.”
Here is the culmination. After scars, vows, mirrors, ink, and screams, She asks for only one thing: your heart. Not gold, not ritual perfection, not masks of virtue — just the naked, trembling heart. This is the pūrṇa–āhuti, the final offering. To give your heart is to give your core — the last fortress of ego. Once placed in Her porcelain hands, there is nothing left to defend.

This verse shows the maternal face of the devil-mask:

• She promises heaven not by escape but by transforming hell.

• She drinks regret and gives it back as milk.

• Her porcelain hands, once feared as claws, become vessels of tenderness.

• And in the end, all She asks for is the one thing you cling to most — your heart.

This is not romance; it is initiation. The heart is not given to be comforted, but to be devoured, transfigured, and returned as freedom.

 

 

Verse 13

 

Japanese:
me o sorasanaide
koko ni iru wa Baby I’m here
kagami o nozoite watashi o erande My Dear
shinku no inku de yami ni chikaeru no nara
Show me your dream
kanaete ageru sono yume o

Translation:
Don’t look away — I am here, baby I’m here
Peer into the mirror and choose me, my dear
If you can swear into the darkness in crimson ink
Show me your dream
I’ll grant you that dream

I’M YOUR DEVIL
I live inside your mind! 

 

This is the final initiation. Here Devi makes Her last demand — not through tenderness, but through the terrifying intimacy of the mirror and the vow.

“Don’t look away — I am here, baby I’m here.”
The command is absolute: look at Me. In earlier verses, She asked if you could hear Her voice. Now She forces vision. Tantra is never about escape; it is about seeing directly what you fear most. To look at Her is to see your own reflection — for She dwells in the psyche, as both shadow and flame.

“Peer into the mirror and choose me, my dear.”
The mirror (kagami) is the world of reflections, illusions, masks — Māyā Herself. But in Shakta vision, the mirror is not to be shattered; it is to be entered. By gazing into it, you see both your own face and Hers, until the two become indistinguishable. To “choose Her” is to renounce the comfort of half-truths and accept the Goddess in every form — devil and angel alike. This is the Kaula vow: not to separate purity from impurity, but to embrace all as Her.

“If you can swear into the darkness in crimson ink…”
The spilled ink from Verse 7 returns — but now it is crimson. This is no longer metaphorical writing; it is blood-ink, vow-ink. Crimson is both blood and desire, sacrifice and eros. She demands nothing less than an oath signed with your life’s fluid. In Tantric ritual, red ink and red substances (rakta) are sacred offerings to Yoginīs. Here, the vow is not external but existential: will you swear yourself into My darkness?

“Show me your dream — I’ll grant you that dream.”
Her offer repeats, but with final gravity. She will grant the dream, but by granting it, She will strip you bare. Desire fulfilled in Her hands always leads to transcendence of desire. The dream given becomes the dream consumed.

“I’m your devil — I live inside your mind!”
The song ends with possession. The devil-mask is claimed openly, and its location revealed: inside your own psyche. She is not some external demon, not an angel descending from above — She is the Kundalinī Shakti inside you, the voice of your dream and nightmare alike. To accept Her here is to collapse the split between “me” and “Her.” She lives inside; She was always the one pulling the strings of longing and fear.

This verse is the final vow:

• To look directly at Her in the mirror, without flinching.

• To choose Her over illusion.

• To swear in crimson — to seal the bond with your very life-force.

• To surrender your dreams, knowing they will be both fulfilled and burned.

• To accept Her not as an outside figure, but as the indwelling Shakti.

It is the close of initiation. By the end, the devil-mask is no longer frightening. It is simply Her, saying: “I live in you. You are mine. And through Me, you become heavenly.”

 

Conclusion

 

By the time I’M YOUR DEVIL closes, nothing is left hidden. The moon glimpsed in the abyss, the scars too deep to hide, the vows in spilled ink, the mirror that cannot be turned away from — all of these strands converge into one recognition: the devil you feared was always Devi’s mask, and the heavenly you longed for was always Her gift.

Other songs give us glimpses of Her: a whisper of longing, a flash of tenderness, a shimmer through human romance. But here She allows no distance, no veiling. She names Herself again and again: I’m your devil. I live inside your mind. I am your inner heavenly. The power is not in metaphor, but in direct transmission.

This is why the song feels like scripture. Its force is not symbolic but initiatory. To listen deeply is to undergo a sādhana in miniature:

• To face your scars without hiding.

• To hold desire without denial.

• To swear your vow in ink and blood.

• To stare into the mirror and choose Her.

• To surrender your heart into porcelain hands.

• To hear the two voices screaming — and realize they are one.

And then, in the silence after the final refrain, to know that She is inside. Not a devil to banish, not an angel to chase, but the very current of consciousness that burns and soothes, wounds and heals, destroys and liberates.

If there is one song in which Devi speaks without mask or hesitation, it is this one. It is not merely music; it is Her roar. To hear it is to stand before the Goddess Herself and recognize: She has always lived here, inside your mind, as both devil and heavenly — and through Her, you become divine.