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You might think I’m exaggerating, that an unwanted pregnancy isn’t a catastrophe or anything, but for me it was. It was the biggest catastrophe of my life. A fucking tsunami that wiped out every one of my hopes and dreams, even the mistakes I hadn’t gotten to make yet.
Women always speak, think, and act from the memory of our pain.
It turns out that Jorge Santacruz was right, revenge does heal all wounds.
The dead are more than just corpses—they’re children, siblings, parents. See, when your parents die, you get called an “orphan,” and when your husband passes to the next life, you’re a “widow.” But there’s no word for losing a child.
As you can see, I’m not just a pretty face with a tight body: I’m also an informed woman with all the proper training. I read the newspaper every day because, even though I’m not interested in holding power, I do want to sit at its side.
You compare what a burglar makes with what you do busting ass and, real talk, mijo, you get the itch to rattle the cage, grab the bitch by the scruff, roll the dice.
I set my eyes on a man—“cursed is the one who trusts in man”—and was punished for breaking God’s law.
Ever since that day. Ever since that day you didn’t pick up my call, a black dog named pain, rage, and sadness has followed me everywhere I go.
How can you prove misogyny in court if the murderer says he loved her? Love is misogynist.
The victim was beaten to death in her own home by her husband, after reporting him twenty times. Twenty. Reporting abuse is your best defense. Killed in your own home. Women killed for walking the streets at night. Women killed for being whores. In your own home. Nowhere is safe. Nowhere. Being a woman means living in a state of emergency.
Every two hours and twenty-five minutes, a woman in Mexico is strangled, raped, dismembered, burned alive, mutilated, beaten to a pulp, and left with bruises and broken bones. A woman’s body, another woman.
No one is ever ready for the death of someone they love. But this wasn’t death. It was theft. You were stolen, violently ripped from my side.
Mexico is a monster that devours women. Mexico is a desert of pulverized bone. Mexico is a graveyard full of pink crosses. Mexico is a country that hates women.
Even if only part of your ashes are under my bed—your greedy mother wouldn’t give them all to me—the way I see it, your bones have been gathered. I hope someday I get to hear you howling in the night.
