My childhood days passed by,
as if poured into a chasm
with no bottom, no end. I felt stuck
in between my father’s slaps,
between my prayers at night
not to beat Mother to death,
between the bruises on her face,
on her back, on her hands,
her broken ribs, pulled hair,
(I was in my room, shivering, around six),
between two burning candles
in the dim air at church,
between two spells by my grandma
whispered at dusk, like a witch,
spells which
stop men from drinking and beating,
between two Christmas Eves,
between two homes, two cities,
and a broken life
which I did not choose.
Nataliya Deleva 