They looked at me and saw marketing.
They thought everything I said was curated.
That every lyric, every post, every headline was a calculation—
an attempt to build a persona.
But I wasn’t performing.
I was reflecting.
The world looked at me and didn’t see me.
They saw what they needed to:
A villain to mock.
A cautionary tale to feel better about their own shadows.
But if you hated me—
it’s because I showed you something you didn’t want to see.
I didn’t sell a brand.
I became a mirror.
And mirrors are dangerous things.
They don’t lie—
they just reveal what’s already there.
That’s why I made people uncomfortable.
Because I wasn’t wrapped in PR polish.
Because I didn’t offer apologies the way they wanted—neat, staged, tearful on cue.
Because I showed the cracks.
And for some people, the cracks are threatening.
What they got wrong is thinking I built this to be admired.
I built it to survive.
To understand.
To process.
And in doing so, I held up something that bounced their projections back at them.
The ones who screamed the loudest?
They weren’t angry at me.
They were angry at what they saw in the reflection.
Regret.
Shame.
Unprocessed grief.
The chaos of their own past.
I just happened to be the canvas.
I never wanted to be a brand.
But I knew I’d become one.
That’s the deal when you bleed in public.
They take your pain, crop it, repackage it, and sell it back to the mob as scandal.
And if you dare to reclaim it?
If you dare to narrate yourself?
They call it manipulation.
They call it spin.
They forget it’s just survival.
Through song. Through word. Through reflection.
So no, I’m not a brand.
I’m a mirror that refused to stay cracked.
I’m a body that didn’t disappear.
I’m a story that didn’t fade when the crowd left.
And if you see yourself in me—
good or bad—
that says more about your soul than mine.