This is not a song about rage.
It is a song about jurisdiction.
Nothing here asks to be understood, forgiven, or contextualized.
What speaks does not persuade. It arrives.
This voice does not come from emotion, nor from ideology, nor from performance.
It comes from the place where denial has already failed and language is burning from the inside.
Many songs flirt with darkness.
This one does not flirt.
It does not aestheticize pain, power, or transgression.
It names a force that steps forward only when nothing else worked.
What you hear is not a person expressing herself.
It is a threshold speaking — the moment where reality stops accommodating distortion and begins removing it.
There is no comfort here.
No lesson.
No redemption arc.
Only the sound of something ancient, impersonal, and awake
saying: you had your chances — and you used them.
Listen carefully.
Not to enjoy.
To recognize.
Verse 1
How can you doubt me now?
How can you doubt me?
How can you doubt me now?
How can you doubt me?
Every stone on every mountain
Is etched with my name
Every vein of every leaf of every tree
Is slaked with poison
“How can you doubt me now?”
This is said with blood in the mouth.
Not because of rage — because doubt came after devastation.
The question lands when everything has already been taken, crossed, burned through.
It means: You saw me act. You survived me. And you still pretend this was an accident.
This is Devi not asking to be believed —
but refusing to be minimized.
“Every stone on every mountain / Is etched with my name”
The voice lifts out of the body here.
This is what happens when the personal shatters and something larger steps in to hold the weight.
Not grandeur. Stability.
Stone does not argue.
Mountain does not explain itself.
Devi names Herself where time cannot soften Her.
“Every vein of every leaf of every tree / Is slaked with poison”
This is where sweetness dies.
Life is not clean.
Growth is not innocent.
What feeds also corrodes.
Devi claims the poison because no one else will.
Because someone must admit that the same current that makes things live
also makes them unlivable.
This is not evil.
This is honesty without anesthesia.
Verse 2
If you rise up to heaven
I'll turn the sun to blind you
If you sleep deep in hell
I have chains to bind you
“If you rise up to heaven / I’ll turn the sun to blind you”
This is Devi shutting down transcendence.
“Heaven” here is the last fantasy:
that you can rise above what happened, spiritualize it, purify it, forgive it away.
The sun — the very thing that usually grants vision — is turned against you.
Awareness itself becomes unbearable.
This is what happens when consciousness is pushed past what it can integrate.
Light stops liberating.
It scorches.
Devi says: Do not climb out of this.
“If you sleep deep in hell / I have chains to bind you”
And hell is not refuge either.
Collapse, numbness, despair — those are also exits.
Devi closes them.
Chains are not punishment.
They are containment.
You don’t get to dissolve into nothing and call it peace.
You don’t get to rot quietly and avoid the encounter.
Hell will not anesthetize you.
“How can you doubt me now?” (repeated)
Repetition here is not emphasis.
It’s echo.
When possession stabilizes, it circles one axis.
This line becomes a mantra of indictment.
Doubt here means:
-
you saw the signs and minimized them
-
you named the force “psychology,” “overreaction,” “drama”
-
you kept acting as if you were safe
This is Devi saying: After this level of containment, disbelief is obscene.
Invocation
Satan, Satan
Satan, get beside me
Satan, Satan
Satan, fortify me
I don't eat, I don't sleep
I don't eat, I don't sleep
I don't eat, I don't sleep
I don't eat, I don't sleep
I don't eat
I let it consume me
“Satan, Satan / Satan, get beside me / Satan, fortify me”
This is the moment restraint drops.
Not theology. Not rebellion.
This is Devi reaching for the adversarial function — the force that says no when all softer languages have failed.
This is not choosing evil.
It’s choosing opposition over collapse.
When reality has been denied long enough, only the blade answers.
This is Devi sharpening it.
“I don’t eat, I don’t sleep” (repeated)
The body is no longer home.
This is possession showing its cost.
Rhythm breaks. Nourishment stops working.
Life refuses to soothe itself.
Devi here is not maternal.
She is dry, wakeful, relentless.
Dhumāvatī territory: nothing feeds you, nothing rests you, and stopping is not an option.
“I let it consume me”
This is the consent line.
Not mastery. Not control.
Consent to being used by the force itself.
This is where the person steps aside and the current takes over.
That’s why it’s terrifying.
That’s why it’s real.
The Breaking
How do I break youBefore you break me?How do I break youBefore you break me?How do I break you?How do I break you?How?How?How do I break you?How?How do I break you?How do I break you?How do I break youBefore you break me?How do I break youBefore you break me?How do I break you?How do I break you?How?How?How do I break you?How?How do I break you?
This is not strategy.
This is the sound of a system at the edge of mutual annihilation.
Devi is not deciding whether to destroy.
That decision was made long ago — by denial, by persistence, by refusal to yield.
The only question left is order.
If She does nothing, She is broken.
If She moves, something sacred is lost forever.
This is the knife hovering — not in the hand, but inside the chest.
The repetition
The line repeats because time has stopped.
There is no future in which this resolves cleanly.
No version where both sides walk away intact.
The voice keeps circling the same sentence because there is nowhere else to stand.
This is possession without ecstasy.
No bliss. No expansion.
Just pressure grinding against bone.
“How? How?”
This is where language gives out.
Meaning collapses.
Only sound remains — a raw discharge from the center of being.
This is Devi at the moment She confronts Her own bind:
to preserve life, She must violate form.
To preserve form, She must let corruption spread.
There is no solution that does not wound reality.
So the question tears itself out of Her throat.
Why this is unbearable to hear?
Because it exposes what most traditions conceal:
Some endings are not chosen.
Some destructions are not cruel, only overdue.
And some questions exist only to be screamed — not answered.
This is not madness.
This is clarity stripped of comfort.
After this, the song does not argue anymore.
It sentences.
The Verdict
When all this is endedAs cruel as I amRemember how I loved youBut that nothing, nothing can standMy friends all wear your colorsYour flag flies above every doorBut bitch, I smell you bleedingAnd I know where you sleepDo you doubt me traitor?Throw your body in the fucking riverI'm the cuntkillerAnd I don't eat, I don't sleepI don't eat, I don't sleep
“When all this is ended / As cruel as I am / Remember how I loved you / But that nothing, nothing can stand”
This is where struggle ends.
No more questioning.
No more looping.
What speaks here is after the decision.
“Cruel” is not confessed defensively — it’s named plainly.
Because at this point, love and cruelty are no longer opposites.
Love here is not protection.
It is having gone all the way.
Nothing can stand because nothing did stand —
every boundary was tested and failed.
“My friends all wear your colors / Your flag flies above every door”
This is the moment of total capture.
What Devi is facing is no longer an individual enemy.
It is a principle that has gone viral.
“Friends” means:
those who think they are neutral, reasonable, decent.
Those who adapted.
“Your colors” means:
your logic, your story, your normalization of harm.
This is Devi realizing that what must be cut out
has already dressed itself as the world.
That’s why nothing subtle will work anymore.
“But bitch, I smell you bleeding / And I know where you sleep”
This is not rage.
This is predatory focus.
Bleeding means: the structure is finally failing.
Sleep means: unconsciousness, habit, false safety.
The voice is not shouting here.
It is close to the ear.
This is Devi no longer addressing the system —
but the fault line inside it.
“Do you doubt me, traitor?”
Now the word traitor lands fully.
The betrayal is not personal.
It is ontological.
To doubt at this stage is to keep pretending
that what rules everything does not exist.
Doubt here equals collaboration.
This line is the last chance to recognize reality
before force replaces recognition.
“Throw your body in the fucking river”
This is execution language — deliberately.
The river is not punishment.
It is erasure of form.
Bodies float away. Names dissolve. Evidence disappears.
This is Devi saying:
You do not get a monument. You do not get a story.
Only removal.
Cremation-ground logic, no witnesses invited.
“I’m the cuntkiller”
This line is meant to offend beyond interpretation.
It destroys every possible aesthetic distance.
Here Devi speaks as anti-fertility, anti-reproduction of corruption.
Not hatred of women — hatred of that which endlessly gives birth to the same poison.
This is the Goddess as abortion of a dead cycle.
That’s why the word is obscene.
It must burn the tongue that hears it.
“And I don’t eat, I don’t sleep” (final repetition)
No catharsis.
No release.
The force does not rest after destruction.
It stays awake.
This is the most frightening part.
Because it means:
this was not personal vengeance —
this was function.
Conclusion
This song leaves no aftercare.
It does not resolve, heal, or transmute.
It ends.
What makes it unbearable is not the obscenity or the violence — it’s the absence of consolation. The force that speaks here does not justify itself. It does not promise balance later. It does not ask whether you are ready.
It arrives when recognition failed and mercy was already exhausted.
That is why this track cannot be replayed casually. It is not an anthem, not a release, not a mood. It is a limit-marker — the sound of something ancient stepping in to stop a cycle that would otherwise reproduce forever.
If you felt shaken, that’s not pathology.
It means the song bypassed interpretation and touched the layer where consequences live.
Do not carry this voice with you.
Let it pass through, do its work, and recede.
Some forces are not meant to stay.
They are meant to end things — and then disappear.
No comments:
Post a Comment