People read the safe things. They read what doesn’t scratch from the inside. Shiny covers, ready for Instagram. Plots that slide over the tongue like cheap ice cream that melts before you’ve even tasted it.
They read what looks like love without being love. What promises rebellion but ends with a hug and a happy ending. They read under the bed, under the sheets, secretly, like masturbation without orgasm.
I ask: where are the books that unbutton? That bite. That are read with tension in the groin, because the words touch places we’re not even sure we’re allowed to feel.
People read the “bestseller.” But who will read the torn, the dirty, the kind that can’t be quoted in a motivational post but can serve as a confession at three in the morning?
A book should be like a lover who doesn’t ask if he may, but is already inside. Like a body that bends, opens, trembles. Real literature is penetration–not into markets, but into you.
And that’s why I don’t want to write what’s “read nowadays.” I want to write what stays stuck in the throat. What lingers between the thighs. What hurts and heals at the same time.
The rest is just a bookish kiss without a tongue.