the original mkp

genres: poetry | prose themes: actually autistic | actually adhd | actually bisexual | actually mentally ill most popular: growing up autistic / growing up gaslit | older now, you care less what others think of you | now entering the special interest zone with great thanks to all those who reblog my poems: perhaps it is silly, reading so much into it. how can notes on a blog really provide validation? it’s not like it means something, not really; you shouldn’t look at it as some kind of proof. so what if it means they read something in your poems, saw something there that spoke to the difference in their bones? poetry is meant to resonate within the marrow. all this means is that you are a good poet.

[theoriginalmkp]

poem written on a porch swing

swinging back and forth head hanging back hair skimming the horizon you’re stimming on the sheer joy of being

ground rolling beneath your feet like waves on sand or a body breathing surging, subsiding heel to toe and back

there is a weight to this sense of weightlessness a deep pulling on your core a sweet heaviness in your bones

gravity not dragging you down but holding you safe a cradle, an embrace a weighted blanket made of air

[theoriginalmkp]

parentification: a fairy tale, in six parts

"Your brothers can be set free," she said, "but have you the courage and tenacity to do it? The sea water that changes the shape of rough stones is indeed softer than your delicate hands, but it cannot feel the pain that your fingers will feel. It has no heart, so it cannot suffer the anguish and heartache that you will have to endure. Do you see this stinging nettle in my hand? Many such nettles grow around the cave where you sleep. Only those and the ones that grow upon graves in the churchyards may be used - remember that! Those you must gather, although they will burn your hands to blisters. Crush the nettles with your feet and you will have flax, which you must spin and weave into eleven shirts of mail with long sleeves. Once you throw these over the eleven wild swans, the spell over them is broken. But keep this well in mind! From the moment you undertake this task until it is done, even though it lasts for years, you must not speak. The first word you say will strike your brothers' hearts like a deadly knife. Their lives are at the mercy of your tongue. Now, remember what I told you!" - The Wild Swans, Hans Christen Anderson. Translated from the Danish by Jean Hersholt.

I.

once upon a time there was a kingdom with no king.

the kingdom was vast, made of asphalt and grass dry dirt and painful pebbles a swing-set with one working swing

the kingdom had a king once. a king, and a hidden cell, and a forgotten ring.

the ring was gold--or maybe brass? it tarnished over time, shrank, became a dull, pinching thing

the king had a ring once. a ring, and a broken promise, and a lonely queen.

why stop at promises? the queen could break too--shatter mirrors lay land-mines of icy shards

the queen had a mirror once. a mirror, and a lone daughter, and two small sons.

the daughter was also a mirror just as breakable, just as sharp just as silent. what was there to say?

II.

once upon a time there was a chatterbox of a girl with twelve seven six two brothers. twelve seven six two brothers, and a curse.

bossy, brash, she had hair the color of brass and eyes green as nettles, grey as graveyards.

eldest of three, ever watchful, her hands danced like the fluttering of wings and her words tumbled out of her

like a babbling brook in a storm faster and faster as the water rises surging louder and louder

till the water overtakes it entirely and renders the whole thing moot.

once upon a time there was a chatterbox of a girl with twelve seven six two brothers. twelve seven six two brothers, and a choice.

III.

(there is always a choice.)

IV.

once upon a time there were two brothers with a sleeping mother. a sleeping mother, and a screaming sister.

the brothers were bees, constantly buzzing kids, constantly butting heads

they ran trip-trap across black tar rivers dodging bus drivers and hungry trolls refusing to do homework or pay tolls

they ran trip-trap trip-trap till they tripped and fell scraped their knees bloody on raw cement

they came back to the sister crying and bleeding flapping new feathery wings in panic fragile bird bones creaking under the strain

once upon a time there were two brothers with a sleeping mother. a sleeping mother, and a silent sister.

V.

(there was never a choice.)

VI.

once upon a time there was a kingdom with no king, only a lonely sleeping queen with two swans for sons-- two swans, and an eldest daughter.

the daughter never speaks, mouth locked tight by promises; each promise another door of solid oak closed carefully behind her, haunted hallways left to stagnate in the dark.

the daughter never speaks, the keys to her lips hidden, safe buried under the weight of secrets told, secrets kept each another massive mattress in her towering feather bed.

the daughter never speaks, stubbornly ignoring the bruises blooming leaving an imprint of each and every key the sharp edge of metal and solid weight of them so much less ignorable than a simple pea.

the daughter never speaks, just pays the tolls scavenging gold from the treasury, quarters from couch cushions, permission slip signatures from sleeping hands.

the daughter never speaks, watching the thread grow with unblinking bloodshot eyes feeding the wheel stinging flax with blistered hands her midnight silence smothered under white noise, the soft crackles of a hearth fire banked low.

temporary regent of the castle, silently, sulkily, she sits and spins eyes and hands burning, red and raw and resolute.

[theoriginalmkp]

pentina about pain

life is pain, or so the gif goes, dropping the second half of the quotation as irrelevant or superfluous. someone’s always trying to sell you something,

or possibly just to sell you. something to remember: this is how it goes. in this life, baby, you’re always either the consumer or the consumed. the distinction is irrelevant

most of the time. relevance is a matter of perspective, something we tend to forget, or try to; the princess is, in fact, always going to be in another tower, always

just out of reach. like always, you are, in fact, irrelevant to the story and how it goes, at least in the larger scheme of things. you are not the protagonist. the

world is not a novel. the world is not novel. always is another word for never, something that is never relevant to the story and how it goes.

life goes like this: the pain is (in the end) irrelevant. in this life, it’s always something.

[theoriginalmkp]

lady detective

cisgirl is puzzled. her friend's gender is a puzzle. the social construct of gender is a puzzle.

cisgirl wonders if her gender is a puzzle, too. she looks in the toys and game amazon department. it takes a while, but eventually she finds one that looks like her, or at least looks enough like her to pass, and it's the only one with packaging not designed to withstand a nuclear bomb.

cisgirl opens the box and dumps all the pieces on the table. she looks for the edges, the flat cut-offs of expectation. if she can piece together the puzzle's border, the boundaries she cannot - must not - ever cross, perhaps she will be able to define herself by way of negative space.

cisgirl is not very good at puzzles. she tries to spin the pieces in her head, listening for the click of tumblrs falling into place. it never comes. she is growing frustrated now, sick of this self-examination. she begins to force the pieces into place, utterly determined to finish by any means.

cisgirl is still puzzled. her friend’s gender is still a puzzle. the social construct of gender is still a puzzle.

cisgirl is determinedly ignoring any and all signs that perhaps - just perhaps - her gender is a puzzle too.

[theoriginalmkp]

Listen / #RedInstead

the smiling woman talks about teaching the children to use inside voices, to have quiet hands and across the world I feel the collective wince, the cutting off, the knowing of always being too much

the tearful woman talks about grieving the child lost, the life stolen, the dream destroyed and across the world I feel the collective flinch, the inwards collapse, the shrinking in of self

the autistic woman talks about childhood trauma, unintentional gaslighting, cruelties labeled kindness and across the world I feel the collective sharp intake of breath, the shaky exhale, the swallowed sob

the feeling of being known and what comes after:

the collective steadying of heartbeats, the squaring of shoulders, the stubborn lift of chin the defiant flapping of hands, the insolent dropping of masks, the ever growing rumble of sound—

autistic voices are speaking. can you hear us now?

[theoriginalmkp]

variations:

autistic voices are speaking. / do you hear us?

autistic voices are speaking. / hear us.

autistic voices are speaking. / do you hear us now?

autistic voices are speaking. / can you hear us now?

autistic voices are speaking. / it's time to listen.

help me out and vote here: https://www.tumblr.com/theoriginalmkp/variations-on-a-final-stanza-help-me

variations on a final stanza - help me decide! autistic voices are speaking. / do you hear us? autistic voices are speaking. /...

[theoriginalmkp]

variations on a final stanza - help me decide!

autistic voices are speaking. / do you hear us?

autistic voices are speaking. / hear us.

autistic voices are speaking. / do you hear us now?

autistic voices are speaking. / can you hear us now?

autistic voices are speaking. / it's time to listen.

Voting ended onMar 3, 2023

[theoriginalmkp]

#RedInstead

the smiling woman talks about teaching the children to use inside voices, to have quiet hands and across the world I feel the collective wince, the cutting off, the knowing of always being too much

the tearful woman talks about grieving the child lost, the life stolen, the dream destroyed and across the world I feel the collective flinch, the inwards collapse, the shrinking in of self

the autistic woman talks about childhood trauma, unintentional gaslighting, cruelties labeled kindness and across the world I feel the collective sharp intake of breath, the shaky exhale, the swallowed sob

the feeling of being known and what comes after:

the collective steadying of heartbeats, the squaring of shoulders, the stubborn lift of chin the defiant flapping of hands, the insolent dropping of masks, the ever growing rumble of sound—

autistic voices are speaking. it's time to listen.

[theoriginalmkp]

thirty four, and I know that I am doing nothing wrong

but still the anxious guilt scratches at the back door of my brain, unwanted but insistent as the cat in that one old song;

I can dismiss the feeling, ignore it like I ignore the background noise of a crowded coffee shop, slide my attention away from it, ostentatiously turn my back as if it isn’t even there,

and it goes, for a while.

the scratching quiets, the feelings grow quiescent.

I can look at them without shame, admire their beauty, the grace of curve and line; I can see the parting of lips the parting of legs and for a moment imagine myself there imagine invitation and the heat of shared breath the dizzying high of possibility—

I know that I am doing nothing wrong.

I am allowed to look. I have the right to dare. I am committing no crime.

I am not Icarus. There is no object lesson here; this is not a fable, and attraction is not the same as objectification.

I know that I am doing nothing wrong, but still the anxious guilt scratches at the back door of my brain; they always come back, just like that damn cat—

they just won’t stay away.

[theoriginalmkp]

on writing in first person again, after years of only you you you

poem by poem, word after word, you are writing your way back to me. i am writing my way back from you. it is a slow, difficult climb— it is a slow, difficult climb— one i am not certain you are ready to make. one i am not certain i am ready to make.

you move in fits and starts, i trip over fears, stumble made clumsy by the cloud of caution. on only half-acknowledged shames. i am a shyly lit beacon. you have cut for me a path. you are leaning into my light, i am treading in your footprints, reaching for me with tentative tender hands. following you on hesitant halting feet.

poem by poem, word after word, you are writing your way back to me. i am writing my way back from you. it is a slow, difficult climb— it is a slow, difficult climb— one i am not certain i want you to make. one i am not certain i want to make.

childishly, i cling to you. childishly, i glance back, again and again. in your remote distance, i see safety. in your silent steadiness, i find reassurance. i have hidden myself in the softness of your shadows, you are a comforting certainty at my back, taken refuge behind your dissociative shield. the unmoving mountain at the marrow of my bone.

poem by poem, word after word, you are writing your way back to me. i am writing my way back from you. it is a slow, difficult climb— it is a slow, difficult climb— one you are certain is overdue. one i am certain is overdue.

you are tired of being forward scout. i am tired of being the elephant in the room. you worry you are forgetting me. i worry i am losing myself in you. you worry i am forgetting you, i worry you are losing yourself in me, that we are forgetting each other. that we are losing ourselves in each other.

poem by poem, word after word, we are writing ourselves a shaky, cautious equilibrium. slowly, and with great difficulty we continue to climb.

[theoriginalmkp]

things they never told me before i started therapy

some sessions, you'll have nothing to say. you'll be bored and your mind will be blank and you'll feel awkward and guilty about taking up the therapist's time.

some sessions, the words will pour out of you, an overwhelming cascade as some forgotten flood gate deep inside suddenly breaks under the strain.

some sessions, you'll find yourself wandering for what feels like forever, doubling back, jumping tracks, first one way, then another,

so aimless it could almost pass for art. so artful it could almost pass for accident.

careful steps around things you even more carefully do not look at and do not care to name do not dare to name--

there is power in the naming of things.

[theoriginalmkp]

[naming myself litany, with names redacted]

At work, they call me M---. A good, sensible name. A exquisite-handwriting name.

M--- is the name of a woman who gets things done. M--- is the name of a woman who always has three pens, two spare hair ties, and an extra postage stamp, just in case.

M--- is my worksona.

At home, they call me M------. A good, comfortable name. A jumprope-rhyme name.

M------ is the name of a girl who never learns to be afraid. M------ is the name of a girl who throws herself off of swings, out of trees, into the surprised arms of the world, laughing all the way.

M------ is the sunlight visible in the cracks of my marrow.

There is power in the naming of things.

I name you, self.

I name you daughter. I name you sister. I name you eldest-of-three.

I name you cannot-sit-still. I name you runs-into-walls. I name you talks-too-loud.

I name you reads-too-much, needs-too-much, cries-too-often.

I name you missing-stair, avoided-bruise, test-of-patience.

I name you elephant-in-the-story, child-of-too-many-questions, woman-who-sleeps-with-stuffed-animals.

I name you speaks-in-echoes. I name you thinks-in-gifs. I name you sings-off-key.

lullabye girl. changeling child. woman-of-the-laughing-hands. hush now. hush.

hush now, scared-of-shadows. hush now, ghost-of-a-girl. hush now, poem-afraid-to-be-written.

hush now. hush.

I name you rocks-yourself-to-sleep.

[theoriginalmkp]

this is the way creativity dies

stifled under the muggy molasses of words unsaid, of words carelessly unsheathed, a switchblade flicking open— this is a mugging, don’t you understand?

you are holding my words hostage. you are holding me hostage.

you speak and your voice is an aural assault, bowling me over, a perfect strike.

you speak and your not-quite-questions crack like gunfire, shots fired.

you speak and I think of bars, feverish exultation, sweat and salt and lime and the slamming back of shots, of the loud whoop that follows each one.

I have never been what you might call a ‘bar’ person. It’s not really my scene. If you catch my drift.

I’m drifting from the point. The point is that you scare me. Or at least you shock me.

Shock in the sense of a circuit overloading, a system overheating, a equilibrium cracking like thunder cracks its electric whip gunshot loud gunpowder bright

I am not afraid of thunderstorms. I am afraid of my desire to fly a kite.

[theoriginalmkp]

you write your poems in second person.

it’s all a matter of perspective, and you need the distance.

this is not a poem about you.

[theoriginalmkp]

now entering the special interest zone

there’s a giddy joy bubbling up inside of you, impossible to surpress; you’re reminded of being thirteen and having your first real crush.

it’s dizzying in its intensity, occupies your every waking thought–

you can’t shut up about it. there’s just too much there– it spills out in tumbles of words; they trip over each other in their effort to be heard.

this is just like- this reminds me of- did i tell you about-

you can see your audience is far from enraptured, can watch the progression from good humor to barely hidden impatience to just shut up already, god–

and still the words bubble out of you, irrepressible in their joy–

you’re giddy with the rush.

[theoriginalmkp]

#relationshipgoals [02.17.22]

waking in the dark pre-dawn shivering your way out of bed and into the not quite heated kitchen yawning and staring sightlessly, bleary-eyed and exhausted, as you wait for the water to boil.

the ghost of a whistle wakes you and you lurch forward cutting the heat and the sound. with great concentration, you measure out the grounds, pour the kettle’s hot water over the soft darkness.

you put the kettle back, replace the coffee press lid, and wait.

the coffee press only makes a single cup. you get two mugs down anyway, pull out the sweetener and cream. by now it is brewed.

slowly, you press down the plunger, separating the wet mess of grounds from the amber liquid.

you pour the first cup. add just enough cream to cut the acrid acidity— by now, you can identify this by color. one packet of splenda. stir.

you pick up the hot mug carefully, cradling it between two too-cold hands, as gentle and safe embrace, and return to the bedroom.

she is barely awake when you put the mug down, but the warm scent of coffee causes her to stir, although her face scrunches and she makes some wordless sounds of indignant protest. who invented this whole morning thing, anyway?

finally she sits up, still swaddled in blankets, and reaches out one chilled hand to take the offered beverage. a sip, and then she’s reaching out to you, grabby hands entreating, pulling you down to her level and dropping a grateful kiss on the corner of your mouth.

best husband ever, she says, almost smug in the certainty of it, a declaration of clearly obvious fact. you give her a brief kiss back then sigh, stretch, make another awful yawn.

smiling, you retreat again to the kitchen. you refill the kettle and set it to heat.

[theoriginalmkp]

[02.15.22]

cat-like, she curls up in the soft hollow of my back her steady heartbeat and warm breath as rhythmic as any purr

we do not speak. we do not need to. not in this soft darkness, warm and heavy, a blanket of safety

and silence.

I breathe (in). she breathes (out). reaching back, our pinkies intertwine. pulses slow, synchronize.

we are a quiet susurrus a yearning not quite quenched. hand in wistful hand, we lull ourselves to sleep.

[theoriginalmkp]

the two swans

in and out, the needle weaves and the thread pulls taut. in and out, as easy as breathing, as difficult as silence—

cloth blooms from your fingertips glossy and smooth as your brothers’ wings as rough as the rasp of beak green as nettles, dark as blood.

the work takes all your concentration you ignore the the shouted jeers, the clatter and rattle beneath you old wheels hauling you onward, toward the pyre—

you are unafraid of burning.

you already live in a world of fire, a world of your own making, and you are too stubborn to let it consume you now.

there is one sleeve left. your fingertips are raw and red a constant fiery stinging made all the worse by salt

but you bear the burn willingly, each tear as furious and ferocious as the raw wordless screams locked silent inside your chest

echoing and reverberating and cutting yourself to pieces even as you bend your head over your painful piecework.

half a sleeve left, and abruptly you are out of time. the cart shudders to a stop, loud footsteps approach pompous, self-righteous,

a peacock preening before his men, declaiming your (apparently many) crimes. you are a witch, a hag, a horrifying crone, who wanders midnight graveyards

and gathers nettles by the sickly light of the eldritch moon, for what purpose he knows not, but clearly for the casting of wicked spells

like the one you have - in vain! - attempted to cast on him, but he was too strong of will, too stalwart and steadfast

and now you will at last face justice in the form of cleansing flame. he will consume you, one way or another, by fire or the marital bed.

the smoke eats at your mucus and membrane, chokes you with the weight of it forced into your staggering chest

you cough, and you cough, and you cough, and you cry, and you keep weaving, keep sewing, keep sowing the seeds of your desperate witch’s spell—

graveyard nettles plucked at midnight, dappled silver by the moon, spun to stinging thread and wetted with weeping, woven by a willingly wordless woman into the rough facsimile of two shirts, large enough for a full-grown swan—

a quarter of a sleeve left. you squint painfully through the haze trying to see— there! a flash of white, here then gone

then here again, white wings spreading wide, sweeping your captors away, shielding you within the soft down of their feathery embrace,

a last-ditch, stupid, suicidal effort and you love them all the more for it, even as you have the urge to wring their long white necks—

but there is no time. closing your eyes, you think a prayer

and throw the shirts out wide.