Booktok Poetry Books Novels & Stories

I took the paper and opened it. It was a handwritten list, with titles of books I’d never heard of in my life. “Moonlit Surrender.” I read the first one out loud. “The Kraken's Forbidden Desire.” I looked at the next one. “Claimed by the Beast King.” I looked up at Nala. “What the fuck is this?” “Books.” “I can see that.” I looked back at the list. “Ravished by Moonlight. Surrendering to the Fire King.” I raised an eyebrow. “What are these?”

It no longer felt like hiding; it felt like breathing. She met him at a small independent bookstore in Al Quoz—a converted warehouse with high ceilings, exposed brick, shelves that reached toward skylights. She was in the poetry section, running her fingers along spines of Warsan Shire and Safia Elhillo, when a voice—low, calm, slightly accented—came from the aisle behind her. “You read her like someone who’s lived every line.” She turned.

I found two things in fiction and one in the small poetry section near the window that I hadn't expected to want. We met in the middle, near the new releases, and compared finds. He had added two more books to Carol's original recommendation — one history, one biography. I showed him my three. He picked up the poetry collection and read the back, his expression doing the focused thing it did when he was actually reading rather than skimming. "This one's good," I said. "Have you read it?" "I read the review. The poet is from the Bronx — she writes about the city the way it actually feels, not the way people who visit write about it."

She's a nice girl, even though I'm more likely to remember the entire makeup routine than her name. The will to leave the room evaporates from my body. Strolling around, I find a book in one of the drawers. It's old, and the cover has faded halfway. I know not to judge a book by its cover, but this book looks less appealing than a sandwich without filling. With nothing better to do, I decide to read it. It turns out to be a poetry anthology with different poems. Surprisingly, they're interesting. I read a few before dozing off.

I can’t explain it, but I don’t have to, either, if I don’t bring it up, and I’m not one to ever start conversations. I sniff the paperback—old, musty paper, glue, and Justus—and set it on the pallet. The next book in the pile, Peter Kropotkin’s The Conquest of Bread, has a picture of two men chopping down a tree on the cover. It smells the same. All the books are dog-eared paperbacks with yellowed pages—Walden by Henry David Thoreau, Parable of the Sower by Octavia Butler, Critique of Practical Reason by Immanuel Kant, several each by Ursula K. Le Guin and N. K. Jemison, and a massive hardback of Plato’s collected works. The Plato is the only one that looks like it hasn’t been read a hundre

Cela remains disappointed. "C'mon. It's not like they bought everything. They just thought of giving the books as Christmas presents apart from the corporate giveaways. You must know that your mother enjoyed your first book so much. Too bad that she passed before the second one is out," Nanny Rita continued. "You've always been loyal to her," Cela said.

Gladys says, smiling at me and the ladies scream in longing at what has been bestowed for me. “Lastly…” Gladys says, presenting a stack of book towards me. “This is a volume of the king’s favorite books, bound in the finest leather and edged in gold. These poems are shared with you as a token of his desire to connect through the words that move him." Once again, there is an audible sigh spread through the women. "To share his favorite verses," one woman mused aloud. “To connect with him on such an intimate level... What I would give to hold that book, to read the words that move him." Another adds.

"Classic power move." We continue like this for another hour, following research threads that lead to discussions about political theory, social engineering, the ways language shapes perception of power dynamics. It's intellectually stimulating in ways I've craved my entire life but rarely found - someone who can match my analytical thinking while bringing perspectives I'd never considered. "You should read this," Jason says suddenly, pulling a slim volume from a nearby shelf. "Poetry collection. Seventeenth century omega poet who wrote about resistance and survival." I take the book skeptically. "Poetry? That's not really my area."

Maybe even… sad. I clutch my chest. Not here. Not now. “Albert?” I look up too quickly, heart racing. It’s not Edward. It’s just Emon. But his brow furrows as he walks over. “You okay?” I nod, but it’s a lie. He knows it. Still, he doesn’t push. “I found something you might like.” He holds out a thin book, hand-bound, no title on the cover. “What is it?” He shrugs. “Some indie press thing. Local poetry, I think. The owner said it’s about being lost in your own body.”

Darren had once told me that reputations were fragile things—but they could be made stronger in the places where they had once cracked. I believed him now more than ever. I bought two baby books—one for names, one for poetry. I kept them tucked in the bottom drawer of my nightstand. Not because I was hiding them, but because they felt like promises still unfolding. Some nights, when I couldn’t sleep, I read aloud from the poetry book. Darren didn’t always respond. But he always listened. Even when his eyes were closed. One night, I stood by the window in our bedroom, the curtains pulled aside, the moon painting everything silver.