Clayre Benzadón

KINK KING

Fall is turning out
to be the season

of death. I wear
its wreath. Murmur

in my sleep. Morning,
I flip the vinyl to Florence

+ the Machine’s “King”.
I am no mother, I am no bride,

I am king. I masturbate
standing up, pull my own

hair. I freak myself out
as I’m overtaken by a possess-

session, I hump the walls,
kiss myself. Over and over.

Another me mouths yes—
Or mercy. I am the kink

king. A body breaking
its own law. My body

a lit match. God of the un-
made. My crown hums

a pulse, a whip a crack
to electrify the static.

I hold my tongue
to stop myself

from screaming.

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