With appreciation for Karen McKinney Cruz, who offered me a gift when I stopped believing I belonged in my own sentences. Wear your words. E.Z.
She handed me this bag—a gift.
Letters so bold they don’t whisper—
they roar:
SOY CABRONA…
Lo Siento.
The first word hits
like a shot of mezcal—
no salt, no lime,
just fire straight to the heart.
A warning?
A confession?
A rallying cry?
I wear it like a medal.
They say it means bitch.
But in my mouth?
It means rich—in spirit.
It means badass.
It means survivor.
It means fighter.
A woman who refuses to bow,
even when the whole damn world
says:
Sit down.
Be quiet.
Wait.
Wait for whom?
Wait for what?
The one? The prince?
The rescue? The right time?
To be chosen—
as if we were not already
accomplished, fulfilled, complete.
Please.
The old fairy tale is dead,
and good riddance.
Cabrona soy yo—¿Y qué?
I have stood barefoot on broken glass
and still danced to the music.
My lipstick is war paint,
my wrinkles are battle scars,
my silence—when I choose it—
the sharpest blade in the room.
Lo Siento.
Words that literally mean I feel it.
Not an apology with bowed head,
but a declaration of survival—
I feel it,
all of it,
and still I rise.
So I sling this bag over my shoulder
like an old comadre,
and I walk down the malecón.
The night sky explodes in green, white, and red.
Fireworks echo from the church bells—
El Grito de Dolores.
Crowds shouting ¡Viva México!
And this year—
I Claudia.
For the first time in two centuries—
a woman’s voice led the cry of freedom:
¡Feliz Independencia!
Her voice, the nation’s thunder.
And in my chest rises another cry:
¡Viva la mujer que se niega a desaparecer!
Past mariachis, lovers, and fishermen,
past tourists hunting for souvenirs of bravery,
I watch their faces—
the double takes,
the secret smiles,
the nods of recognition.
Soy Cabrona.
Lo Siento.
But beneath the roar,
there is tenderness.
The softness of grandmothers’ lullabies,
the quiet strength of daughters watching,
the trembling of my own hands
when I thought I had no words left.
Even cabronas have tenderness.
Even rebels carry roses.
This is not just a bag.
It’s a banner.
It’s a declaration.
It’s the anthem stitched into my skin.
And if you can’t take it,
take another street.
Because this one’s mine.
And yes—
con corona… más peligrosa que nunca.
¡Basta Ya!
Enough shrinking.
Enough waiting.
Enough being told to earn
what was already ours.
¡Basta Ya!—
for the mothers,
for the daughters,
for the voices stitched shut
and finally split open.
Soy Cabrona.
Lo Siento.
Y eso, mis hermanas,
es libertad cosida en espíritu y estilo.
