Poems
In 2023, Bulgaria witnessed a significant rise in public outcry over domestic violence, spurred by a high-profile case involving an 18-year-old woman who suffered severe injuries from her partner—a case that exposed the inadequacies in the legal system’s handling of such incidents. In response to mass protests demanding stronger protections for victims, the Bulgarian National Assembly introduced amendments to the Criminal Code and the Law on Protection Against Domestic Violence, expanding the definition of domestic violence to include intimate relationships beyond marriage, thereby offering improved protection for victims who were previously excluded under older legal frameworks.
Despite these advancements, challenges persist, including the need for more comprehensive preventive measures and greater inclusivity for marginalized groups, such as same-sex couples. Moving forward, ongoing attention to implementation and societal change is essential for the effective enforcement of these laws.
But public attention is fickle, and the need for raising awareness is greater than ever. Survivors of domestic violence often remain unheard—silenced by shame or dismissed due to lingering discriminatory attitudes. The poems “The Night I Thought I Would Be Killed by Morning” and “Passersby” are Gabriela Manolova’s attempt to give voice to a fraction of these untold stories. Focusing on the aftermath of abuse, her work explores the lasting trauma faced by those fortunate enough to make it out alive, as well as the hope for healing and a fresh start.
Below are two short films featuring a voice-over reading of each poem, along with the two poems in separate text form.
Poetry: Gabriela Manolova
Acting and voice: Tsveta Dimova
Direction and edit: Teodor Dokov
Cinematography: Boris Kalaidjiev
Producer: Zlatina Teneva
The Night I Thought I Would Be Killed by Morning
Gabriela Manolova
The night I thought I would be killed by morning
comes back to me, in nightmares and broad daylight,
in fragments, sharp shards of memory,
one moment distant, the next about to pierce skin
Sometimes, it’s better to remember just bits and pieces
They’re easier to shake off than the whole
But sometimes, it’s worse—small and agile,
tricky little critters can crawl into the closest corners
Like lightning, memory strikes without notice
I’m walking down the street and suddenly I hear
a variation of something screamed that night long ago
And there I am, trapped on the sidewalk, frozen under the sun
There I am, stranded on a night from an unforgotten summer
Pesky insects, those violent highlights,
things headlines and memoirs are made of
After lightning, they come as loud, startling crashes of thunder,
a fist slammed down on hard surface, then bone
Or they can be quiet, threats whispered in deafening silence
A kaleidoscope of dread and terror:
Ice-blue eyes rimmed red with rage,
black pupils reflecting my face,
then the silver gleam of a blade,
teasing vengeance for unknown offense
The memories reek, too, of fear and burned dinner
Color, noise, smell—all of it a door back to that moment
Never let it be said trauma isn’t varied
The night I thought
I would be killed by morning
was long, is long,
still hasn’t ended
But back then, morning dawned
and I was somehow still there
Now I’m waiting for the night to end again
There’ve been many mornings since,
all these beginnings I now take as gifts
And I’m still here, alive
Perhaps even well
The sun of now shines on the shards of then,
ice-blue starts to melt,
the colors of my nightmares
are no longer the brightest thing I see
I’m here, but there’s less of me
than before, and at the same time
there’s more
Someone did die that night
And someone else was born
Passersby
Gabriela Manolova
Walking down the street of newfound freedom,
I keep hoping today will be the day this stops and I begin.
But then, barely a minute outside—God, there it is.
A familiar unwelcome shadow, the old life trails behind me,
always less than half a step behind.
Yet each day, I tie my shoelaces and try to outrun it,
knowing there’s much to be grateful for
despite clouds of distrust and dread dimming my vision.
Shadow or not,
I feel the sun’s grace on tired skin again.
Every now and then,
memory creeps up my neck and whispers.
Past horrors invade the present
with fresh, sharpened spears,
out for blood, insatiable,
as if old wounds have healed
and the body is ready for more.
My mind’s been on the mend,
cracks slowly knitting closed,
but damn my eyes—traitors,
still painting strangers in past’s ugly hues.
I waste my only glimpse of them
on a face I hope never to see again.
Take this hunched old man—no time for curiosity.
My mind pins a sneer to piercing blue eyes—
you cooked that? again?
Then a young man; to his unknown face,
I attach a familiar aquiline nose.
And all I see is a scrunch of disgust—
you’re not wearing that; quickly, go change.
The next—eyebrow arched, challenge on a pointed face,
sharp as the edge of violence—you better get back here, or else—
Then, a cruel tilt to another’s mouth, a smirk, almost laughing,
like it’s a little thing, how small he made me become.
Shadow stretches like a tentacle,
wraps my throat, gentle at first—like always.
But soon its grip tightens, alive as memory,
roaring the same relentless refrain—
or else, or else.
I bow my head so I can’t see his cruelty
reflected on others, innocents turned into monsters.
Old tears burn in broken eyes,
they mean to protect, but too late.
Shadow’s caught up and singing:
hear me, hear me, I’m not going away,
I am your pain and I’m here to fucking stay.
I fall on newly healed knees, let it envelop me,
grotesque parody of a security blanket—
he promised safety only with him.
Spear pokes through chest,
blood drawn at last.
I yank the invisible shackles,
those old friends
that wear me like jewelry,
and push onward.
The bruises burn, never cooling,
I’m a branded animal.
Yet no longer his. Mine.
Even numb to the breeze,
these wings recall the shape of flight.
So I keep moving—walking, hoping, running—
toward the edge of what’s next.
Perhaps, just ahead,
a new beginning waits at the corner. A new me,
free from compulsive hypervigilance,
whole enough to walk hand in hand with my shadow—
to hold all of myself: painful past, crippled present.
Feel the sun, not so blind to the light,
and look upon the world with new eyes,
not with fear, not suspicion—
but wonder, unshielded.