Clara Benito
Clara Benito is a writer working across poetry and critical thought. Her practice explores the body as a site of inscription, where language, violence, and perception converge. Moving between personal experience and theoretical inquiry, her work engages with crip perspectives, ecological collapse, and the limits of coherence and legibility.
She is the author of Todo puede ser una daga, and is currently developing a hybrid essay project that examines flesh, consumption, and materiality as both metaphor and infrastructure.
Her writing resists clear boundaries between disciplines, inhabiting instead a space where theory becomes embodied and language fractures under pressure.
This text emerges from a crip/embodied perspective that resists normative scales of coherence, proportion, and temporality. Rather than describing hypersensitivity as a deficit, it approaches it as a mode of perception that exceeds dominant frameworks of legibility. What follows is not an argument but an enactment: a text that attempts to think from within the body it describes.
A delicate motion
You/I are catalogued through lack: less capable, less contained, less coherent—dis/abled. And yet— you/I are capable in unexpected ways, in senses no one anticipates.
You/I feel that everything is happening always, all at once, even in the widest of pauses. Even when walls don’t crack, and when the air stands still, you/I tremble as if struck by a hundred avalanches.
My/your insides refuse logic and scale. We do not feel in proportion. The world overwhelms us, and you/I echo it.
You/I take up space— unevenly. But you/I do not understand time— it frays, spirals, folds in on itself.
And there is a strange fortune here— in dissociation, in deafening silence, in the stillness that crushes, like a tide that never turns.
Everything is always too much: too soon, too close, too heavy— as you/I think we are perceived. It is always a body that speaks. But my/your body is raw flesh— impossible to ignore. It burns, stings, itches— even if only you/I can see it.
Don’t scratch. Don’t tear the scab. Let nothing touch you. Avoid.
I am/you are a storm forecast beneath a cloudless sky. Or I was/you were— and now nothing else can be seen in me/you.
What worlds can this hypersensitive core imagine— where nothing is everything is nothing is everything again— and then collapses?
You/I build stuttering worlds, worlds that stumble, groan, and drown. Worlds that breathe through broken ribs. Held together not by clarity, but care.
But that will bleed, if necessary.
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