Scare Me

This one arrives with more weight, more space between the notes, a sense that something serious is being considered. The guitar tone has a slight rawness, and the dynamics are careful — the song knows when to hold back and when to push, when Maq's voice needs room and when the instruments can press in close. What the song is really about is the specific fear that comes with loving someone honestly: the terror of being seen, of having your vulnerabilities known by another person who could use them. Maq sings it without deflection, which takes courage, and her voice has a quality in this song of someone facing something rather than running from it. The production keeps the emotion from tipping into melodrama — everything stays grounded, honest, slightly rough at the edges. Within the broader Camp Cope catalogue, it functions as a confession about intimacy rather than its celebration, acknowledging that closeness and exposure are the same thing. It belongs to a long tradition of punk women writing about emotional stakes with the same directness usually reserved for political anger — turning that energy inward, finding it no less radical. You listen to this when you're on the edge of letting someone in and you're not sure if you're brave enough, or after you've done it and you're still not sure if you were right to.