Angry Too

Heat runs low like a whisper in my veins,
Cherry-thick fire dripping through the chains.
You touch my back — it spreads like smoke,
A feverstream rising from the words you spoke.

My pulse hits quick every time you breathe,
Red warmth crawling underneath my sleeve.
You look at me — and everything blurs,
Like my body only listens
to yours.

Your hands move steady — slow, aligned,
Tracing every tremble down my spine.
The fever builds where our shadows meet—
A cherry-warm current beneath the sheet.

Feverstream — running deep between our skin,
Pulling me close
where the dark begins.
Feverstream — cherry heat I can’t deny,
You take one breath
and I’m caught inside.
Feverstream — rising every time you call,
All of my walls
start to fall.

Your lips glide soft like a secret threat,
A promise of heat I’ll never forget.
Every touch lands heavy, slow, precise,
Cherry-red hunger melting through ice.

You tilt my head — watch me come undone,
Your mouth tastes trouble
mixed with sun.
I hold your shirt — can't let you leave,
The feverstream climbs
every time you breathe.

Your voice dips low — a velvet knife,
Cutting through the quiet of my shaking life.
The moment swells when your fingers press—
Cherry fever dripping
from the stress.

Feverstream — running deep between our skin,
Pulling me close
where the dark begins.
Feverstream — cherry heat I can’t deny,
You take one breath
and I’m caught inside.
Feverstream — rising every time you call,
All of my walls
start to fall.

Slide closer, baby — drown me slow,
Let the feverstream take control.
Your hands on my hips,
your mouth on my neck,
Cherry heat turning breath
into wreck.
No turning back —
I’m already in,
This feverstream burns
beneath my skin.

Feverstream — spill your heat into my soul,
Cherry-red rush
I can’t control.
Feverstream — every touch pulls me deeper in,
Lose myself
under your skin.
Feverstream — rising fast, making me shake,
Everything you give
is more I take.
Feverstream…
I’m burning for you tonight.

Feverstream

Funeral is Willa’s most chaotic release to date—a punk album soaked in venom, thunder, and rebellion. It’s not mourning—it’s mockery. A soundtrack for crashing funerals, flipping pews, and dancing on graves. Produced with Milton Blends’ signature stormy textures, the album fuses distorted guitars, trap drums, church organs, and riot‑ready chants into a sonic riot.

Boy in the Bubble

Alec Benjamin