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Andra-Astrid Belibou, 30 years old, is participating in the 6th International Literary Creation Competition, from Constanța, Romania. We are grateful for the participation and wish her success.

The Ghost of You

When all I knew was nothing but a lie,
Your face—once noble—twisted into beast.
My limbs fall numb, heart aching at the sight,
And still I ask: Who even are you now?

I knew you once, or thought I did too well,
Each chapter of your life I dared to read.
I drank your light, your shadowed sides as well—
But now it's blurred, all ink and ash and greed.

You waved at me with that familiar sigh,
Unmoved, though I was drowning in disgust.
I hate you more than I had ever loved;
My body flinched, remembering the trust.

Your face—a cruel echo of my father’s.
Your eyes—I've seen them in another life.
You're not the man I knew, not any longer.
You haunt me still, but only as a wraith,
A ghost that lingers where love turned to strife.


Ever Dream

Sometimes I dream of floating—
in air, in water, weightless and free—
but it always ends the same:
a plunge, a gasp,
me drowning in the dark beneath.

Sometimes I dream of ending it,
a final scene in crimson hues—
blood on the walls, lipstick sharp,
my face, a whisper on the web,
a myth they piece together too late.

Sometimes I dream of never waking,
slipping into soft oblivion—
no gods, no ghosts, no afterthoughts.
Or maybe I’ll return as something new,
someone untouched by this ache.

Sometimes I dream I’m someone else,
a borrowed name, a stranger’s face.
I trade this skin, this soul, this scream,
for silence, for nothing—
for a self I don’t despise.

Sometimes I dream of vengeance—
call it karma, call it wrath.
A mirror held to every scar you gave,
a justice that bites and bleeds,
just enough to let me breathe again.


When I Grow Up

They say magic isn’t real—
no spells, no stars, no wands.
But my mind, sharp as silver,
draws miracles in silence.
And the hand that grips the knife?
It carves futures.
When I grow up,
I want to be a doctor.

They say my talent is unreal—
figures dancing from thought to page,
worlds sketched in charcoal dreams.
My hands bring life to blankness.
When I grow up,
I want to be an artist.

They say my words are heavy—
verses that twist and pull,
truths too deep for daylight.
My stories cradle sorrow
like it’s something sacred.
When I grow up,
I want to be a writer.

They say my food mends hearts—
colours that sing,
flavours like lullabies,
a single bite to feel at home again.
When I grow up,
I want to be a chef.

They say my love is rare—
a touch that listens,
eyes that understand
what pain doesn’t say aloud.
They call me mother before I am one.
When I grow up,
I want to be a teacher.

They say I am grown now—
but I don’t belong here
or anywhere.
The clock ticks, but nothing moves.
Hope thins like old paper.
When I grow up,
I want to be gone.