The thing about “feel, love” by Hope Wilkins is—it doesn’t ask to be felt gently. It claws its way into your bloodstream, mixing pop sugar with rock bruises, and dares you to bleed pretty. It’s jagged. Raw. Sexy in that cracked-lip, mascara-running kind of way. Born in a garage and built on heartbreak, this track doesn’t just toe the line between melodic and messy—it eats the line for breakfast. Featuring a fierce verse from Kyle Wilkins in the bridge, Hope keeps her promise to release fire every six to eight weeks—and this one might be my favorite kind of damage yet.
The first time I heard “feel, love,” I was sitting in the backseat of a car I didn’t recognize, next to a guy I wasn’t sure I liked, while my best friend was arguing with the Uber driver about whether his aux cord was real. The city lights were bleeding across the windshield in that dreamy, late-night blur, and someone handed me a half-warm White Claw from their bag. Classy. I was mid-sip, mentally calculating how many tequila shots I’d had when the pre-chorus hit: “All my friends high in the kitchen / Talking shit, the acid sinks in…”
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I sat the fuck up. That line? That was us last weekend. That was me at 3 AM, spiraling on someone’s floor in a borrowed hoodie, deleting texts I swore I wouldn’t send.
From there, the song spiraled—like a blackout memory you’re not sure you survived. Hope sings, “Cut off my ears in Van Gogh’s sink / And I don’t wanna hit the floor,” and it’s all sensory overload: neon regret, throbbing beats, mascara in your mouth. And that chorus? “I don’t wanna feel love / I’m sick of all the fake shit…”—it’s not just a rejection of love, it’s a fucking purge. It’s lighting the whole relationship on fire and dancing in the ashes with a smirk.
Hope’s voice is so confessional it almost feels wrong to listen to. Like reading someone’s journal after they told you not to. But you keep going. Because this isn’t just about heartbreak—it’s about reclaiming yourself from the wreckage. “No more excuses from my ex / No more of me comes second best…” God, I felt that. I am that.
And just when you think you’ve caught your breath, Kyle Wilkins kicks in like a middle finger to the past. His rap verse is a blistering, venom-laced reflection: “You destroyed everything that we built up… I wanna go back to the days I never met her.” He doesn’t hold back. Neither of them do. This is the kind of song you scream into your pillow—or maybe on stage in front of your ex’s new girl.
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What I love most is how “feel, love” doesn’t resolve. It doesn’t tie things up neatly. It leaves bruises. It walks away barefoot, mascara-streaked, still drunk from the kitchen acid trip. And you don’t even care. You chase after it, because there’s something cathartic about not wanting love—at least not the kind that cheapens you. “Trust comes at a cost / Fuck, I’m broke as shit…” Honestly? Same.
Hope Wilkins has always been that girl. The one turning chaos into poetry. Since her 2019 debut “Waste”, she’s gone from bedroom-pop siren to powerhouse voice-of-the-broken-but-unbothered. A self-taught musician from Canberra, she started writing poetry in high school before picking up a guitar and turning pain into pop hooks. Her sound grew louder—and so did the buzz. She’s sold out live shows, scored a nomination for Best Live Act in the ACT at the National Live Music Awards, and even landed a spot in the triple j Unearthed video comp. Now, crafting her debut album from her garage with a full band backing her every blistering lyric, Hope’s not just rising—she’s erupting. With support slots alongside Greta Stanley, Hollie Col, and Hands Like Houses, she’s proving one messy, magnetic track at a time: heartbreak may have built her, but it sure as hell won’t define her.
If “hope u came” was the tease, “feel, love” is the slap. It’s the anthem for anyone who’s ever screamed into a club mirror, ripped off their ex’s hoodie, and said, “fuck it, I’m done,” right before going back—one more time. Or not. Maybe this time, we really don’t wanna feel love.
