I was born from the spitfires.
Speaking 10 words a second
since age four,
I could curse with the best of ‘em
and still maintain my rep
as the catholic sweetheart.

I come from the women
who kept their last names.
The ones who wouldn't marry.
The “Who the hell you think you talking to? You gon learn today.”
Wachále, they don't fight fair.
They'll catch you at the carwash,
come up from behind,
pull hair and
leave you reconsidering your relationship with God

Do you know who I am?
I'm the Aztec thirst for blood.
The rattlesnake wielding eagle.
The second coming of Quetzalcóatl.
I've got the pride of a god.

And you,
with a silver tongue
and the false love of those
Moctezuma thought were seres divinos,
know  just how to make
a Malinche out of me.
To calm my onerous nature
and turn my howl into a whisper.