Is Esme Rose AI?

No.

And you know what? I don't owe you that answer.

I don't owe you my words. I don't owe you my music. I don't owe you my books, my face, my time, or a single breath of explanation about who I am or how I make what I make.

But here I am. Writing this. At midnight. Again. Because something happened recently that made me want to, and I'll get to that.

First, let me be clear about something.

I almost didn't do this. I almost let the noise just be noise. Because that's what most of it is... noise. People who've never made anything in their lives, sat behind a screen, confidently explaining me to other people who've also never met me. You can go on Reddit right now and read entire threads written by people who don't have a single clue what they're talking about. Not one. And some of them aren't just wrong, they're crossing lines. Stating "facts" about me that aren't facts. Putting things into the world about a real person, a real woman, with real children, that they wouldn't dare say to my face.

But that's the internet, isn't it? The mask it gives people is the scariest thing about it. Braver than any spell I've ever written.

And I find it funny. Genuinely. Everyone's got a voice when it comes to little old me - a woman making music and writing books in her house - but where's that energy for the things that actually matter? Where's that fire when it comes to the corruption sitting right in front of your face? The known predators in power? The trafficking? The systems that chew up children and spit them out while the people in charge get richer?

Nobody's writing Reddit threads about that, are they?

Spraying shit about a woman they've never met is easier. Safer. Gets more upvotes.

So no. I don't owe you this. But I'm going to give it to you anyway, not because you deserve it, but because the people who actually care about this work do. And I can tell the difference.

I'm 34. I grew up in the UK. I was the kind of kid who made teachers uncomfortable. Not loud. Not difficult. Just… watching. Writing things in notebooks that nobody ever asked to see. I didn't fit in the box they built for people like me, and at some point I stopped apologising for that.

That was the beginning of everything. I just didn't know it yet.

I write the lyrics. Every word. I write the music. I write the books. I build the videos. Everything begins in my head, moves through my hands, and reaches you because I chose to put it out there. Nobody makes me do this. There's no boardroom. There's me.

Do I use modern tools? Yes. It's 2026. I use visual tools, production software, AI-assisted elements, because people don't actually bleed tar from their mouths and sheep don't sit at dinner tables with royalty. Some of this was always designed to feel unreal. That's the art. If you don't understand that, I genuinely don't know what to tell you.

But here's what no tool on earth can generate: the woman who sat in the dark and wrote "Your priest fucks kids, but I'm the sinner."

No algorithm wrote that. No machine held that rage at 2am, turned it over, shaped it, and decided that's the line. That came from somewhere real, the white-hot, bone-deep anger of watching powerful people do unspeakable things and then turn around and point the finger at you.

And that brings me to why we're actually here.

Seven Deadly Spells is down. And it wasn't my choice.

People reported the album. Let that land for a second.

They reported The Devil Made Me Do It. They reported Sinner. The content was flagged as offensive. Anti-Christian. Dangerous.

Songs about hypocrisy. Songs about the systems that protect predators and punish women who speak. Songs that say out loud what half the world is too comfortable to admit, those were flagged as the problem.

I wrote a song that says your church got rich while the kids got raped, and I'm the one who needs to be silenced?

Read that again.

I can't say everything I want to say about this yet. There are things happening behind the scenes that need to be handled properly. But I will say more when I can, and that's not a vague promise to keep you interested. It's the truth. When have I ever not come back and told you what happened?

The songs still exist. They haven't been deleted. This is not over.

Now, here's the thing that changed my mind about writing all this. Because like I said, I almost didn't.

As a witch, my whole practice is rooted in self-work. Inner work. I don't sit on the internet all day. I don't scroll through comments looking for validation. Honestly, the internet is a nasty place, and the longer I spend on it, the less I recognise the species. I'd rather be outside. I'd rather be writing. I'd rather be with my kids.

But I do read my messages. Not all of them, but enough.

And last week, one of them stopped me dead.

Someone, I won't say who, I won't say where, told me that one of my songs had kept them here. In this world. On a night when they'd decided they didn't want to be in it anymore.

I nearly didn't read it. I almost closed the app. I'd had the kind of day that makes you wonder why you bother.

But I did read it. And I sat with it for a very long time.

The same week, a woman invited me to a festival in Canada. A man from France replied to something I'd written at midnight and said "Even the thorns have roses." A woman in America told me she sings my songs at work to make a man who hides his hate behind religion physically leave the room. Someone in Australia is furious that Apple Music pulled the album in their region. A girl in Germany messaged me, heartbroken, because The Devil Made Me Do It was her favourite song and now she can't play it.

And then there's the comment that said: "AI at its finest."

Two words. Three seconds to type. From someone who's probably never created a single thing in their life.

Meanwhile, there's a woman in Canada who sings my songs at karaoke and plays my albums so much her husband knows the words. There's someone who told me my music helped them finally come out and begin transitioning at 54, after decades of hiding. There's a person who plays Sinner every time they feel low and says it pulls them back up.

Those people don't feel artificial when they press send.

So here's what I'll say to the Reddit crowd, the comment-section experts, the people who've got opinions on a woman they've never spoken to:

You don't know me. You don't know what I've been through. You don't know why I stay hidden, and you haven't earned the right to demand that I show myself.

Someone turned up at my front door. Holding one of my books. Asking to see me. That wasn't the first time someone had crossed that line, but it was the time that made me understand what I was actually putting at risk. I have children. That's not a negotiation. That's not a brand decision. That's a parent drawing a line in the dirt and daring you to step over it.

So no, you don't get my face. You don't get my real name. You don't get to know where I live or what school my kids go to. You get the work. And if the work isn't enough for you, if you need to see a woman's face before you'll believe she's real, then that says far more about you than it does about me.

There are things coming that I can't talk about yet. Things that have been building quietly for a long time. You'll understand when you see them.

For now, the music is mine. The words are mine. And I'm not going anywhere. Not because of Reddit. Not because of reports. Not because someone with a Bible and a broadband connection decided my art was too honest for their comfort.

I'm the witch they burn, but I'll hex this crowd.

If you feel something when you listen, that's not a programme running.

That's me in it.

Esme Rose