Mise en Abyme, But Make It Cute (Porcelain Avalanche)

[Vocal character: intimate androgynous lead, clear yet softly textured, with seamless register transitions. Preserve the same gender-ambiguous timbre in exposed phrases, full-voice peaks and layered harmonies.] [Verse 1] [Small, polished chamber textures conceal an unsettled androgynous lead voice. Harp ornaments remain delicate; piano notes occasionally rub against the harmony.] Tiny museum in my mouth Teeth hung with little past lives Smile and the spotlights blind me Everyone claps for the wrong piece [The neat harp pattern catches on a dissonant piano note. Reduce the voice to a controlled, uneasy confession.] You point at the prettiest wound Say “that one Stay just like that” So I freeze in the pose you painted Even though my knees are shaking [Chorus] [Broad melodic defiance. Tom thunder and guitar waves support clear alternating phrases; backing harmonies answer without adding new words.] You want the postcard I bring the mess You want the pattern I bring the rest You want the version that never screams But I’m sick of playing curator to your dream [Shift the piano figure by one accent while the vocal remains confidently melodic; the chorus refuses perfect symmetry.] You want the repeat I bring the wrong key You want the surface I bring the ugly You love the costume Hate what it means I’m done being pretty inside your dream (hey) [Verse 2] [Return to a more brittle piano figure, muted bass and porcelain taps. Keep the vocal dry and increasingly impatient.] You hang my heart in straight lines Measure it twice for the gallery Red dot on the label says “sold” I keep coughing up unsent versions [Warm bass presses forward beneath the brittle chamber texture; make the delivery less compliant.] You push my hands to the outline Say “color in how we met” But every time I try new shades You wipe them off with your breath [Chorus] [Widen the guitars and vocal stack. Let the final ad-lib feel spontaneous and earned.] You want the postcard I bring the mess You want the pattern I bring the rest You want the version that never screams But I’m sick of playing curator to your dream You want the repeat I bring the wrong key You want the surface I bring the ugly You love the costume Hate what it means I’m done being pretty inside your dream (woah) [Bridge] [Break the decorative pattern. Begin almost alone, then add dissonant cellos, uneven porcelain strikes and rising toms for each question.] What if the painting bites back? What if the canvas runs off? What if the gallery burns down And nothing gets replaced? [Break into near silence, then rebuild with each question: porcelain, low cello, tom roll, finally distorted guitar.] What if my hands stop posing? What if the nice song breaks? What if the mirror grows teeth And spits your taste back in your face? (yeah) [Final Chorus] [One breath of silence, then the full ensemble. Soaring lead and radiant harmonies convey freedom, not prettiness; keep the hook unmistakably pop.] You want the postcard I bring the mess You want the pattern I bring the rest You want the version that never screams But I’m sick of playing curator to your dream You want the repeat I bring the wrong key You want the surface I bring the ugly [Pull the gang harmonies back for these final lines. The lead declares them clearly before the last chord blooms.] You love the costume Hate what it means I’m done being pretty inside your dream [Outro] [Instrumental. Let the last guitar chord bloom into untidy, beautiful porcelain resonance.]