President of America

In childhood, there was no father’s face,

Only walls, cold and distant—an empty space.

A plush bear became the father I could hold,

I whispered, “You are beautiful,” to soft fur, not bold.

School halls were battlegrounds, tears unshown,

No protector came, no voice for my own.

I cried while others laughed, bruises hidden deep,

The city watched, the gypsies jeered, I could not sleep.

2012, a shadow of a man appeared,

Yet Moldova called, a new life I feared.

Russian schools, new friends, streets I roamed,

Mom remarried, but the house felt like stone.

Stepfather says, “I love you as my child,”

Yet boundaries are foreign, his temper wild.

Mother obeys, afraid of the storm,

He always right, even when wrong.

Hands can strike where hearts ache,

He loves only what mirrors his own stake.

I said no, I said stop, yet pain was my guide,

He cannot see the hurt my heart tries to hide.

Yet, in the shadow of all this pain,

Mom gives gifts, trying to soothe the strain.

Her attention scarce, her love in things,

A silent apology for the heartache life brings.

I stand between worlds, bruised but alive,

Learning what it means to set and survive.

Father in the cross, protector unseen,

Guide me through this, in places between.