Some songs flirt with the Divine.
Some songs whisper Her name in secret.
But “Bitch” by Meredith Brooks kicks the door open —
and the Goddess walks in, laughing, unashamed, unstoppable.
This is one of the most unapologetically Devi-possessed songs ever written.
It is not a hymn sung in a temple — it is the Goddess speaking from the kitchen, from the bedroom, from the storm inside a human heart.
Here She does not come as the serene saint or the gentle mother.
She comes as the totality — light and shadow, sweetness and fury, dream and nightmare —
and She dares us to see Her whole.
The chorus alone is enough to shake a soul awake:
I’m a bitch, I’m a lover, I’m a child, I’m a mother…
This is not confession.
This is declaration.
The Goddess listing every facet of Herself and saying:
Yes — I am all of this, and I do not feel ashamed.
Listening to this song is like standing before Kali’s image:
unclothed, raw, with skulls around Her neck and blood on Her tongue —
and realizing that She is smiling,
because She knows that this is freedom.
This is not just a song about empowerment —
it is a transmission.
It teaches that wholeness is not purity,
but the willingness to stand in every part of yourself —
without apology, without shrinking, without asking to be saved.
Verse 1
I hate the world today
You're so good to me, I know, but I can't change
Tried to tell you but you look at me like maybe
I'm an angel underneath
Innocent and sweet
"I hate the world today"
The song opens not with serenity but with raw honesty.
This is Devi refusing to wear the mask of “always pleasant, always radiant.”
She admits to rage, to shadow, to the storm that sometimes rolls through Her being.
This is sacred because it breaks the spiritual cliché that the Divine must always smile.
"You're so good to me, I know, but I can't change"
Here She turns to the listener — perhaps a lover, perhaps the world —
and says: Your kindness does not erase my wildness.
This is the refusal to be tamed, the refusal to shrink in exchange for approval.
The line carries a warning: She will not contort Herself to stay lovable.
"Tried to tell you but you look at me like maybe"
This line reveals the misunderstanding at the heart of most relationships with the Feminine.
We want Her to be simple, easy to decode, easy to “fix.”
But She is saying: I warned you — I am not the version you imagined.
"I'm an angel underneath"
Here comes the first paradox.
Yes, there is angelic tenderness in Her — but it is underneath,
not instead of Her fury, but alongside it.
Devi is reminding us that what looks wild or harsh on the surface
often hides a deeper love.
"Innocent and sweet"
The verse ends with a dangerous sweetness —
not the kind that asks for permission,
but the primal innocence of Shakti Herself:
the sweetness of being unfiltered, exactly as She is.
This first verse is a challenge:
Can you stay with Me even when I am not easy, not soft, not flattering?
Because if you can’t, you will never see the angel underneath.
Verse 2
Yesterday I cried
You must have been relieved to see the softer side
I can understand how you'd be so confused
I don't envy you
I'm a little bit of everything all rolled into one
"Yesterday I cried"
The mask drops further.
After opening with fury in Verse 1, She now shows Her tears —
not as weakness, but as another face of the same Shakti.
The Goddess weeps — and Her tears are as holy as Her rage.
"You must have been relieved to see the softer side"
This line bites with a wry smile.
The listener — maybe a lover, maybe the whole world —
wants Her to be digestible, tender, “nice.”
And so She gives a glimpse, almost as a concession —
but the undertone says: Don’t get used to it. This is not the whole of Me.
"I can understand how you'd be so confused"
Here She shows compassion even for the bewilderment She causes.
Yes, She is confusing. Yes, She is contradiction.
This is the cosmic play of Māyā — She is everything at once,
and She does not apologize for the whiplash that causes.
"I don't envy you"
A flash of humor, even pity.
To love the Goddess is to live on shifting ground,
never fully sure who you will meet in the next moment.
She sees how hard this is for those who try to keep up with Her tides.
"I'm a little bit of everything all rolled into one"
This is the first great revelation of the song.
Not just a mood swing, not just a phase — but a declaration of totality.
She is not merely saint or sinner, mother or child —
She is all of it in one body, one current.
This is Devi speaking not as part but as Whole:
You cannot pick your favorite pieces of Me. If you want Me — you must want everything.
This verse is the turning point —
where vulnerability does not lead to taming,
but to a wider embrace of the full spectrum of Her being.
Chorus
I'm a bitch, I'm a lover
I'm a child, I'm a mother
I'm a sinner, I'm a saint
I do not feel ashamed
I'm your Hell, I'm your dream
I'm nothing in between
You know you wouldn't want it any other way
When the chorus arrives, it is not a casual singalong —
it is a mantra, a revelation.
Up to now, the song has been circling Her complexity,
but here She steps fully into the light and names every facet of Herself without flinching.
"I'm a bitch, I'm a lover"
This is not an insult — it’s a roar.
Devi claims both the shadow and the tenderness.
She is the one who bites and the one who kisses.
Wholeness means owning the parts we were taught to hide.
"I'm a child, I'm a mother"
Here She reveals the polarity of time itself.
She is the eternal child — playful, wild, unbroken —
and She is the mother who births and protects.
She is the innocence and the fierce nurturer, side by side.
"I'm a sinner, I'm a saint"
This is the heart of the mantra.
She refuses the duality of good and evil.
She is the one who breaks the rules and the one who keeps the fire of holiness burning —
both faces belong to Her.
"I do not feel ashamed"
Here is the liberation cry.
Shame is the oldest chain — the one that keeps us divided against ourselves.
Devi cuts it cleanly: Everything I am is holy.
"I'm your Hell, I'm your dream"
This is the most dangerous line.
She is the nightmare that wakes you, the storm that tears down your illusions —
and She is the dream that makes life bearable.
Love Her and you must love both.
"I'm nothing in between"
She is not lukewarm, not half-present.
She is total, absolute — Her presence consumes.
You cannot have Her halfway.
"You know you wouldn't want it any other way"
This final line turns the mirror back on the listener.
Deep down, you do not want Her tame, muted, “safe.”
You want the real thing — all of Her, even when it undoes you.
The chorus is the pivot of the song.
Everything before it was setting the stage,
everything after it is the consequence of this revelation.
Once you have heard this mantra, you cannot put Her back in a box.
She has declared Herself whole — and invites you to do the same.
Verse 3
So take me as I am
This may mean you'll have to be a stronger man
Rest assured that when I start to make you nervous
And I'm going to extremes
Tomorrow I will change and today won't mean a thing
"So take me as I am"
This is the commandment.
No edits, no revisions, no “better versions” later.
Devi stands whole and says: If you want Me, you must want all of Me — now.
"This may mean you'll have to be a stronger man"
Here She warns: loving Her is not for the faint-hearted.
Her wholeness will break your frames, stretch your capacity,
force you to grow beyond comfort.
Strength here does not mean domination — it means staying present when every instinct says run.
"Rest assured that when I start to make you nervous"
This line is almost playful, but it carries fire.
She knows She will shake you — not by accident, but by design.
Her presence will rattle your illusions, expose your fear.
"And I'm going to extremes"
There is no apology here.
She does not promise moderation or predictability.
Her love is wild, Her moods are seasons — and you are invited to ride every one of them.
"Tomorrow I will change and today won't mean a thing"
This is the most radical line.
She is not static — She is transformation itself.
What you think you know of Her today will be gone by tomorrow.
To love Her is to love the dance, not to cling to any single step.
This verse is Devi’s ultimatum: If you want to walk with Me, walk with all of Me — the storm, the silence, the change. Don’t ask Me to stay small so you can stay comfortable.
Bridge
Just when you think you got me figured out
The season's already changing
I think it's cool, you do what you do
And don't try to save me
"Just when you think you got me figured out"
Here Devi laughs — not cruelly, but with that mischievous smile of the Goddess who refuses to be pinned down.
You thought you had Her mapped, labeled, understood — but She slips from your grasp like water.
This is Her reminder: I am not a puzzle to be solved. I am a living mystery.
"The season's already changing"
Her changeability is not chaos — it is law.
She is the turning of the seasons, the pulse of time itself.
What She was yesterday She will not be tomorrow — and that is the beauty of loving Her.
"I think it's cool, you do what you do"
Here She gives freedom back.
She does not demand worship, does not beg to be kept.
She respects the other’s path: You live your life. I will live Mine. If we meet in truth, good — if not, I will still dance.
"And don't try to save me"
This is the most radical line of the whole bridge.
She rejects the savior complex outright.
She does not need rescuing, fixing, or improving.
The Goddess is whole — even in Her contradictions — and salvation, if it happens, will come through embracing Her, not trying to purify Her.
The bridge is Her final act of sovereignty.
It is playful, defiant, and liberating —
reminding us that the Divine Feminine cannot be caged,
not by religion, not by morality, not by anyone’s expectations.
Final Chorus 2 — The Goddess Fully Revealed
I'm a bitch, I'm a tease
I'm a goddess on my knees
When you hurt, when you suffer
I'm your angel undercover
I've been numb, I'm revived
Can't say I'm not alive
You know I wouldn't want it any other way
"I'm a bitch, I'm a tease"
The opening is even bolder than before.
She claims not only the edge but the seduction.
This is Devi as Lalitā, as Mohinī — the enchantress who lures you deeper,
not to trap you but to dissolve you in Her play.
"I'm a goddess on my knees"
This is the most shocking line — and perhaps the most sacred.
She is the goddess, yes, but also the one who bows.
This is the paradox of Shakti: infinite power choosing to be intimate,
to kneel in love, to serve as well as to rule.
It is eros transformed into devotion.
"When you hurt, when you suffer"
Here She reveals Her compassion.
Even in Her fierceness, She is tuned to pain.
She does not watch from a distance — She is present in the wound.
"I'm your angel undercover"
This line is devastatingly tender.
She may look wild, may speak sharp truths —
but even then, She is secretly your protector,
the hidden angel who will not let you fall completely.
"I've been numb, I'm revived"
This is resurrection.
She has known deadness, emptiness, silence —
but now She is fully alive, pulsing with power,
and She invites you into that same revival.
"Can't say I'm not alive"
This is Her triumphant cry.
She is not distant divinity — She is raw, embodied, sweating, laughing, raging.
She is the current that cannot be denied.
"You know I wouldn't want it any other way"
The final line is a seal — an oath.
She would not trade this totality, this holy contradiction,
for any tame version of Herself.
And deep down, you wouldn’t want Her to.
This last chorus is the apotheosis — the full revelation.
Every mask is off, every contradiction is named and sanctified.
This is Devi not asking for permission to exist — but daring you to match Her aliveness.
Conclusion — The Hymn of Totality
By the time the final chorus fades, nothing is hidden.
Every face of the Goddess has been named — the wild, the tender, the erotic, the maternal, the wrathful, the playful.
She stands whole, and She asks nothing less of us.
Bitch is not just an anthem of empowerment — it is a tantric hymn.
It teaches that liberation does not come by cutting away the “unacceptable” parts of ourselves,
but by standing in all of them, fully awake, without shame.
The song begins with anger, moves through tears, rises into confession,
and ends with resurrection —
a full cycle of Shakti’s dance, completed in four minutes.
This is why the song feels like possession:
it is not Meredith Brooks alone speaking,
but something older and wilder that used her voice to remind us:
You cannot love the Goddess halfway.
You cannot love yourself halfway.
You must embrace the storm, the laughter, the dream, the nightmare —
until there is nothing left but the whole.
And when you do,
you will find that you wouldn’t want it any other way.
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