You can take 100 rising indie pop stars; none will quite match her destructive blade that cuts moments of beauty out of self-destructive tendencies, body image issues, family dynasty, aging, and, most often, raw reality. She opens 2023’s Honey by threatening murder.

At many points, Bloodless, her third studio album, attempts to reconstruct this violent, acerbic demeanor, but doesn’t know what to do with itself. “You don’t know me, bitch,” she quietly sings on the folky “Proof” – clearly supposed to be a standout moment, but falling limply. “Craziest Person” is similarly awkward. “I always look for the craziest person in the room / Sit down with the craziest person in the room,” she says, without realizing that some conclusions are better left unspoken. The audience is smart enough to know Samia’s DNA when she sings about keeping quiet so a guy will let her in his apartment (as she did on “Sea Lions”). Spelling it out so clearly is a little out of character for her.

It might be worth pointing out that Bloodless is where Samia’s skills as a writer surpass those of a singer. Much of Honey was auto-tuned, a risky but strategic choice, and The Baby’s indie pop soundscapes were pretty tame. But a lot of the melodies on Bloodless sound a little stilted, lyrics tripping over each other in “Lizard” or “North Poles” and a flatness in “Dare.” And instead of ending on the haunting existentialism of “Pants” (“Too then to be right now / I’ll trade the why for how”) she includes “Biscuits”, an abnormally twee finisher: “Pink blossoms luring you to an invitation from the sapling / Makes you wonder which magical things were already happening.” Whereas the show stopping ending of “Bovine Excision” never dilutes upon replay, “Carousel”’s noisy, explosive finish lacks explanation. The album can sort of be a strange listen.

Back to the writing, where most of Bloodless’ killer instincts lie. After the lurid, visceral scenes of Honey, Samia increases the distortion between her abstractly connected sentences, making the lyrics more of a pin-poked map with strings attached than a cohesive narrative. “Pulling the suit straps over my hips / Blow Waylon a kiss while he drinks piss / Stuff a salmon in the silhouette / Look for Jesus in my rosettes,” she begins “Spine Oil”, a song about… what, really? She goes from blood pacts with Gigi (who downed cocktails for breakfast on Honey), flipping a Lana Del Rey lyric, a heavenly creature, and being “ass up heart broke in a leotard.” Bloodless comes together across songs, not within; it’s a delightfully haphazard strategy that sometimes falls apart.

But there’s no shortage of striking, deadly moments; her lacerating self-reflection has never been so clever or bare. “Peace is a double locked door / I’m the whore with the extra key,” she admits on “Lizard.” Her gifted prose makes for stunning imagery: “Trying to feel hugs from heaven / Jack off to someone who’s pregnant”; “Boneless in the backyard / I bend well and suck hard”; “I’ve got no shortage of brilliance / If you can catch me in a clear cup”; “I just wanted to be your friend / cup of tea in your cold hand”; “Mumbling from your corner / at your back and in your defense.” Her one-two punches, at their best, stomp even MJ Lenderman’s. But it makes the case that Bloodless is better read, not heard.

Bloodless is a clear continuation of Samia’s distracted, astute writing – observe first, comment later. While its tunes are a little weaker than that of her previous albums, she emulates the “poetry without the words” she mentions on “Sacred”, snapshotting around a subject in order to construct a clear picture. But sometimes the resulting image is a little hazy.