The Mannerisms of MH

I don’t remember the exact prompt that led to the writing of Mannerisms, but whatever it was, Mariska was the only person I could think about, and how she acts when she’s full of gratitude and joy. Her Mannerisms.

Her hand over her heart, her hands clasping together like she’s praying. A warm smile.

If you haven’t been able to tell by now, Mariska Hargitay means a lot to me. No, that’s an understatement. She means THE WORLD to me, because that’s what she’s given to me, or given back to me. She and Maile both helped pull me out of the darkness that I was trapped in 4 years ago, they showed me the light. Life isn’t perfect, but I realize now that it’s okay that it isn’t, and that I’d have a hell of a lot of people who would miss me if I were gone. She gave me a new lease on life and I don’t take it for granted.

She helps me push past my anxiety and do whatever it is my heart feels is right, she helps me fight, not just for myself but for others. Sometimes I swear it’s like she takes over my vocal chords and gives me the strength to share my story, and the words to say to help others when I may not have them.

Mariska is my muse. She has been for a long time now, but honestly, she’s the best muse I could ever ask for. Her spirit, her soul… if I can capture even a little bit of that in a poem, then I consider that a hell of a good poem.

Here’s to you, Mariska.

My Sister…

In my book, there’s a poem called Sister. It’s a list poem about what she’s done. Stealing, abusive (knowingly or not), drugs, over doses….

I haven’t spoken to her in at least 6 months. Maybe more. Until yesterday. She didn’t have my new number, and no one would give it to her. Somehow she got a hold of it and called me.

It caused me anxiety, it was hard to breathe, I couldn’t stop crying, because she always knows what to say to push my buttons and make me feel less than. She always has. And she does it intentionally. She knows it hurts me.

She says she’s getting clean. But she’s said she’s getting clean before. I don’t know that I believe her.

My sister.

KM

The Story Behind ATTN: BTPD

The picture above is not the room I sat in. The picture above was found on google images by searching Police Interview Room.

But it’s close.

Attn: BTPD is a prose poem, a letter to someone (several someones) who is too far away, of something I need to say.

Before I get into this, because I’ve heard it before, I KNOW my case didn’t qualify as urgent. Looking back, I get it. But in the moment, scared, alone, and vulnerable, I didn’t want to hear that my case wasn’t urgent. It felt like I was being told I wasn’t important. But wasn’t I?

I walked into the police station with no intention of it going to trial. I knew. I waited “too long” (I was within the 5 year statute that I believe still exists in NJ for sexual assault), I had no physical evidence. All I wanted was a paper trail, so if he did this again and someone reported they had proof of a pattern. That’s all I ever wanted. Because like the poem says, even if I didn’t and don’t deserve justice, the next girl does.

This poem was written the day after the 4 year mark of my reporting. I was hurting. So, I wrote it out in my Creative Writing class. I wrote about the feeling of sitting in that chair. The feeling of being silenced. Of having to recount what I did, what I wore… everything. I recounted how all the evidence was gone within an hour, and so I curled up in my bed and cried.

Maybe my story isn’t what many think of. And that’s okay. I found my voice a few months after that, and I speak out now, in hopes maybe I can help someone else.

So, I took hurt I was feeling and I channeled it into a poem that was heartbreaking to read, but one I’m incredibly proud of.

New Year, New Book

It’s finally here! My new book, Picking Up the Pieces will be available soon! Most of this was written in my creative writing class this past semester in school. But there are a few I wrote on my own. It doesn’t have a “theme”, per say. Its emotions. I’m not good at visual arts, I’m better with my words. So when I feel something, I sit down and I write. It gives me somewhere safe to express my emotions, without hurting someone. It’s how I’ve coped all my life. Whether I wrote as an escape from reality, or because I didn’t have an outlet for my emotions. Writing is like home for me. I feel comfortable.

Now, this book is a little more expensive than my last book, because it cost more to make. I self publish, so I have control over a lot of things, I don’t have control over how much it costs to make my book. So instead of $7.50, it’s $10. Even though it’s short, I think it’s worth it, if for no other reason than I poured my heart and soul into these poems and pieces of prose. But, because I’m not doing this to make money, I’m going to donate profits to Joyful Heart Foundation a foundation that is near and dear to my heart.

So, please get my book on Amazon, and if you’re feeling particularly kind, please leave a review. I can’t order you to do this, I can’t offer you anything in exchange for it, I can’t tell you I’ll review your book (if you wrote one), but I am allowed to say that if out of the kindness of your heart, you want to review, please do!

I’m also hosting a giveaway, via rafflecopter, check that out and don’t forget to enter to win an autographed copy of Picking Up the Pieces!