There’s a certain point in every toxic situationship where you stop defending yourself and just say, fuck it, fine, I’ll be the villain if that makes you sleep at night. That’s the burn Sarina bottles in ‘If You Need Me to Be the Villain (Then Maybe I Am)’—a sharp, alt-rock hit produced by Kevin Thrasher, the same guy behind Blink-182 and Avril Lavigne’s chaos. The title alone reads like something you’d fire off at 2 AM after too many shots, and it lands with the same sting.
It’s rooted in the mindfuck of gaslighting, the constant rewrites of reality designed to make you doubt your memory, tone, and your face in the mirror.
Sarina grew up in Tokyo with a Japanese dad and Lebanese mom, born in Hawaii but raised bilingual and bicultural. It’s in her voice—cool, unshaken, pulling early 2010s pop-punk into right now without slipping into nostalgia. She’s riding that Olivia Rodrigo meets Paramore wave, but with a harder edge and less of the please like me energy. She’s already got fans on Ones to Watch and Apple Music’s New in Rock playlists, and this track makes it clear she’s not here to play nice.
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It opens quietly, deceptively so. “I’ll be fine,” she says / “I don’t mind,” she says—like the girl who’s been swallowing her side of the story for way too long. The one who keeps her voice low in the fight because she knows screaming won’t change a damn thing. Then she twists the knife—skin like ice / on a blade I like / to pretend it’s all one fucked up fantasy. I’ve been there. Playing the role he’s written for me, letting him think I’m fragile just to keep the peace, when really, I’m cataloguing every lie for later.
The pop-punk snap hits with I can smile / make it reach my eyes / don’t look too close you’ll see through my lies. That’s the mask, the curated version of yourself you wear so the gaslighter doesn’t think they’ve won, even when they’ve chipped at your edges. She admits crying won’t do a thing for me now / I know I’ve got to be stronger somehow—that’s when the beat drops into the chorus, her voice cutting through like someone finally standing up in the club after sitting in the booth too long, heels back on, game face locked.
If you need me to be the villain then baby, I can / if you ask me if I’d be willing, well maybe I am. That’s the flip. That’s the moment you stop apologizing for breathing wrong and start owning the story they’ve been telling about you. She sings it like a dare, like she knows exactly how dangerous she can be if pushed. And when she adds ‘cause I kept it all, I held the cross / now the weight of the world is empty, it’s that post-break freefall—no more holding the bag for someone else’s damage.
Midway through, she gets sly with cars drive on / the curve you’re gone / as the light fades fast I wonder who to blame. The gaslighter’s gone, but the reflex to blame yourself sticks. I’ve left bars at 2 AM with that same feeling, mascara still on, lipstick perfect, but my stomach twisted. The way she follows it—to pretend I like / being cast aside without a fight—you can hear the acid in her voice.
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The bridge is pure warning label: a danger, stay away from her, too hasty with a trigger finger / safer far away from her, she’ll haunt you like a fool if you let her. It’s the point where the gaslighter’s version of you becomes a weapon you choose to own. This is where Sarina stops being the girl who takes the blame and starts being the girl he tells his friends not to fuck with—because she knows how to clap back in ways he doesn’t come back from. Don’t look don’t touch me, I’m disgusting all that I did to cast the / blame me, far too tempting anyway. It’s self-aware and self-possessed all at once—she knows she’s been made into a cautionary tale, so she sharpens it into a weapon.
By the end, maybe I am is a concession made with a smirk. He can keep their moral high ground. She’s here to take the heat he’s been throwing and make it burn the way she wants it to. The track’s fierce without losing its hookiness, and Sarina’s delivery stays icy even when the guitars go full chaos.
It’s the kind of song you play getting ready for a night out after a breakup you didn’t deserve—when you’re in the mirror, lip gloss on, knowing damn well your “villain era” is gonna be bussin’. And yeah, he’ll probably say you proved his point. Good. Let him cook.
