Leave Me Alone is a diary entry scrawled in lipstick on a fogged-up mirror. Reneé Rapp isn’t begging to be understood, she’s daring you to keep up. It’s Gen Z heartbreak pop, but smarter, sadder, and hotter than you’d expect. This isn’t healing. It’s havoc…and we love her for it.

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“Leave Me Alone”

We open with noise—deliberate, defiant noise. Reneé kicks the door in with glitter-stained combat boots, yelling “stop bugging me” with the clarity of a girl who knows she’s a problem and the prize. It’s sweaty, bratty, gorgeous chaos. If confidence had a ringtone, this would be it.

“Mad” 

Oh, this one pleads. Not for forgiveness—for logic. Reneé’s trying to shake someone awake, like, “Why are you still mad when we could be making out?” It’s electric with frustration, love, and a dash of “please get over yourself.” You know this one plays in the background of your post-fight text draft.

“Why Is She Still Here”

Lana Del Rapp. This is candlelight and mascara tears on silk pillowcases. It aches quietly. Reneé’s voice is soft here—almost too polite for the war she’s waging for real love. There’s a question buried under every breath: “If I mean nothing, why am I still bleeding for you?”

“Sometimes”

We’ve all heard “I love you”—but when Reneé sings this, she’s asking, “Then why do I feel like a placeholder?” It’s painful and pretty, like watching someone smile while they break. She wants to be chosen, but she’s also ready to walk—if she can just unhook her heart first.

“Kiss It Kiss It”

Flirty. Fizzy. Dangerous. Reneé’s crushing hard and making it everyone’s problem. The song glows like a neon sign outside a bar where bad decisions are born. 

“Good Girl”

It opens with that Phil Collins glow—drums, longing, a little vintage drama. She’s trying to keep it together, really—but then they walk in and it’s over. Hormones win. Morals lose. And the good girl in her doesn’t stand a chance. Honestly, same.

“I Can’t Have You Around Me Anymore”

Here, the album drops to its knees. It’s the song you whisper to yourself on a sad drive, the kind where your heart keeps looping the same maybe-love that will never happen. It’s dreamy devastation. Reneé aches beautifully, and you ache right alongside her.

“Shy”

She’s undone. Usually unshakable, now stuttering and soft. This one’s for the over-thinkers, the “cool girls” who fall apart when the right person smiles. It’s Olivia Rodrigo by way of Broadway, chaotic crush energy with a glittery edge.

“At Least I’m Hot”

Icon behavior. Reneé makes heartbreak sound like a victory lap. It’s delusion, but make it couture. She’s spiraling, but in heels. The thesis? “You might have ruined my life, but I’m ruining the timeline with my selfies.”

“I Think I Like You Better When You’re Gone”

The clarity hurts. It’s post-situationship PTSD set to a synth beat. The realization is chilling: maybe you were addicted to the drama, not the person. Reneé doesn’t sob here—she shrugs. And somehow that’s even more brutal.

“That’s So Funny”

Oh, this one cuts. It’s bitter, backhanded, weaponized intimacy. She knows where it hurts—and she’s not afraid to twist the knife. Behind the sarcasm is real betrayal, buried deep. This isn’t funny, but it is fantastic.

“You’d Like That Wouldn’t You”

Closing with venom and mascara smudges. Reneé’s whispering rage here. It’s the sound of someone standing in front of their ex, daring them to enjoy the spectacle of her pain. It’s raw, a little evil, and exactly how the album should end: with a bang and a mirror.

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