 By: Val Hernández Let’s get one thing clear: Bite Me, Reneé Rapp’s sophomore album, is not here to be polite, linear, or tame. It’s bold, messy, cheeky, gut-wrenching — and yes, deeply queer. From its opener Leave Me Alone (reviewed previously) to its final punches of heartbreak and high notes, Reneé gives us a project full of sharp turns, late-night spirals, petty thoughts, big feelings, and even bigger vocals. Whether you’re sobbing into a pillow or dancing half-naked in your room, Bite Me has a track for it. Sometimes both at once. In a word? It’s chaos. Glorious, lesbian lighting-style chaos.  There’s no neat little storyline — and that’s kind of the whole vibe. It’s not trying to be some deep concept album with a big moral at the end. It’s just a bunch of moments: raw, messy, a bit all over the place. And honestly? That’s why it hits. Feels real. Feels human. Reneé isn’t trying to convince us she’s healed. She’s just showing us who she is: a little broken, very self-aware, and absolutely done playing it safe. Thematically, she covers a lot: heartbreak, betrayal, intense desire, self-confidence, lingering grief, confusion, rage, and sexual agency — all framed through the lens of a proudly queer woman in her twenties figuring it out. Some songs hit like confessionals (‘I Can’t Have You Around Me Anymore’), others like chaotic journal entries (‘At Least I’m Hot’), and some like late-night arguments you win three hours too late (‘That’s So Funny’). These are my highlights: ‘MAD’ is pure pop catharsis, with a chorus that explodes in all the right places — and yes, the way she says “mad” at 1:02 should be studied. ‘Why Is She Still Here?’ is bass-heavy and haunting, giving Amy Winehouse energy filtered through sapphic frustration. ‘Sometimes’ is a whispery heartbreak ballad that wraps around you like a memory you weren’t ready for.  Then there’s ‘Kiss It Kiss It’, which could be the evil, sapphic cousin of ‘Tell Me Something I Don’t Know’ by Selena Gomez. ‘Good Girl’ feels made for a queer coming-of-age film — synthy, dreamy, slightly retro, and affirming in all the right ways. And then there’s “Shy” — a track Reneé’s described as the hardest she’s ever written. You can feel the weight of it: the quiet struggle of trying to accept love while still unlearning past hurt. It’s tender, exposed, and absolutely heartbreaking… all within a danceable, head-bumping instrumental. ‘I Can't Have You Around Me Anymore’ taps into a similar emotional space, but with a different kind of ache. The intro crackles like an old TV set, setting the mood for a song that never quite says what happened — just leaves us with the tension of something broken. Maybe betrayal, maybe more. It’s all in the silence between the lines. There’s no closure, just that horrible limbo of not knowing. And that’s exactly what makes it hit so hard. ‘You’d Like That, Wouldn’t You?’ carries that same energy but flips it — full of biting sarcasm and early 2000s pop-rock attitude. The Avril Lavigne/Paramore influence is unmistakable — but it still feels like Reneé, not imitation. Same goes for ‘I Think I Like You Better When You're Gone”, which leans more into R&B ballad territory, showcasing her stunning vocal control and emotional depth.  Vocally, Bite Me is less about showing off and more about feeling it. Reneé’s not out here trying to belt her way into our hearts — she knows she’s got the range. What she gives us instead is pure vocal storytelling: soft falsettos, breathy little verses, explosive choruses, and the odd scream-sing moment that somehow makes you want to sob and throw a fist in the air. If there’s one critique, it’s that some lyrics get lost in the mix — especially on the ballads — and listeners with hearing disabilities (or whom English isn't their first language) might need a lyric sheet to catch everything. But that also speaks to the emotional urgency of the album: it’s not overthought. It’s instinctive. Loud. Real. And maybe a bit much for your parents… but who cares?! What makes Bite Me so powerful to me is that it’s unafraid to live in contradiction. It’s sexy and heartbroken. It’s chaotic and intentional. It’s queer joy and queer grief, all rolled into Rapp’s middle finger to anyone who ever made her feel too much. This isn’t nostalgia as costume — it’s Reneé reclaiming pop through her own unapologetically sapphic lens.
This isn’t just an album. It’s a love letter to every queer person who’s ever felt too dramatic, too clingy, too honest, or too much. With Bite Me, Reneé Rapp says, “you’re not too much, you’re just alive.” And if the world can’t handle that? Bite me.
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