Corashe is Nathy Peluso’s fiery pep-talk to herself and a playful scolding to the timid lover who let her down. Spinning Lunfardo slang, Caribbean rhythms, and fearless braggadocio, she turns heartbreak into a catwalk of power: the needle of betrayal stings, yet she strides back dressed in Versace, mouth “de plata,” ready to melt medals into gold and rewrite her worth. The repeated hook “te hace falta corashe” (“you need more courage”) is both a taunt and a mantra, reminding the ex— and anyone listening — that true boldness comes from facing your own fears, not from hiding in the rain outside her door.
Behind the swagger lies a tender confession: she did love hard, she did sing serenades, and she did crave those quiet moments “pega’itos.” But when vulnerability met indifference, Peluso chose radical self-confidence over longing. By the time she plans her escape to Havana in search of new pleasures, the message is clear: courage is the ticket to stand beside her, and if you can’t find it, she’ll dance on without you. The song becomes an anthem of Latin-flavored empowerment— equal parts kiss-off, celebration, and invitation to grow a braver heart.