Eric Rafael Ciabai is participating in the International Literary Creation Competition, 7th Edition, from Drobeta-Turnu Severin, Romania and is 12 years old. We thank him for his participation and wish him success.

Dear,

I don’t actually like you,
Though at times I think I do.
Perhaps it’s all the stories
Of the ones that fell for you

That made it all so twisted,
And made it all so blue,
‘Til I can’t understand
If I like you… If not, who?

Because sometimes I wonder,
Think ‘bout people that you loved.
And if you really liked them,
Would that somehow make you bored?

But although, I swear to god,
That there‘s something I must say,
I still don’t seem to wonder
Just enough about today.

Because, oh, when I see you
I see sparks that roam around.
They make me want attention,
And make me want more love.

But does this mean I like you,
Or does this make me sad?
Or does this mean I'm selfish,
Or does this make me mad?

I think ‘bout what I’m typing,
And I’m writing to be read.
I hope I haven’t torn up
The straight path that led ahead.

But, I will say one more time,
Even if you understand,
That I do not like like you,
Just that if you like liked me,
You would be my girlfriend,
And not just my girl friend.


Aftermath

Sorrow, then bleach
When you reach for the bridge
And they preach as you twitch
“It was nothing.”

Sorrow, then bleach
As you nudge at the judge
Who said “Suicide spreads,
Just like cutting.”

Sorrow and bleach
When you’re stuck in a cell,
And you're tied to the rail,
Where you’re rotting.

Sorrow and bleach
When you bang and you breach
At the wall they don't teach
To say something.

Sorrow, sorrow
They find no tomorrow
Just a corpse lying dead,
But you're coughing.

Bleach, oh the bleach
As they clean and they leach
All the blood that they reach,
You're still breathing.

Yet the dust in your eyes
And the rust on your thighs
Will not melt until blood
Is depleted.

So the growls in your teeth
And the pain that you weep
Will not fade from the deep
Where you’re seething.


The Harvest

Called me “Harvester” in whispers,
Name designed to make me dread.
Filled my shape with twisted horrors,
Things that lived inside their heads.

Gave me fangs I do not carry,
Gave me claws I’ve never known.
‘Til their lies became my mirror,
‘Til their fear became my own.

I know words can wound far deeper
Than the actions that they spoke,
So I learned the kind of language
That would make them feel provoked.

Said I had fangs I don’t carry,
And had claws I’d never known,
So with the taste of their sorrow,
All my fear became their own.

Then I saw a shape, a child,
Drawing close with steady breath.
With no trembling in her movement,
No belief at all in death.

I could prove the whispers hollow,
Show them I’m not what they say,
But the Harvester within me
Took, then emptied, then betrayed.

Fear me now, I’ve learned your stories,
I became what I feared most.
Look at me, the shape you crafted,
And now look at what you lost.