A cozy, dimly lit bookshelf filled with eclectic, vintage books — some with strange titles, handwritten notes sticking out, a faint glow coming from an old reading lamp. The mood is warm, nostalgic, slightly surreal.

There’s a bookshelf in my apartment that never sleeps. It stares at me every morning as I pour my coffee — a silent judge made of fake promises, forgotten intentions, and dust with literary undertones. This is my “polka styda,” as I lovingly call it — the Shelf of Shame. Or maybe glory. Depends on the lighting and my mood. These are books I bought with a deep breath and an even deeper illusion that I’d read them “when things quiet down.” Newsflash: things never do.

I own an out-of-print manual on how to develop telepathic abilities using household crystals. It’s from 1977. The cover has a cartoon man touching his forehead while a cat watches skeptically. I bought it in New Mexico during a road trip breakup. It smelled like mothballs and sandalwood. I’ve never opened it past page 4, but sometimes I sniff it when I’m sad. That counts as use, right?

Next to it? A Ukrainian edition of Oscar Wilde’s personal letters, which I found in a used bookstore in Toronto, purely because someone wrote “DANGER!” in red pen on the inside cover. It has my favorite combination of elements: mystery, romanticism, and a language I don’t speak. I imagine the notes are just someone’s grocery list, but in my head it’s an elaborate code about forbidden love.

There’s also a 1984 programming textbook for BASIC. Bright orange cover, the font is slightly terrifying. I don’t code. I never will. But I like pretending I live in an alternate timeline where I’m a cold-war-era computer scientist who wears square glasses and solves problems no one else understands. I once left it open on my desk so a plumber would think I’m “complex.” It worked.

Every few months, I add another member to the shelf. A cookbook from 1973 with recipes that involve a lot of gelatin. A slim poetry zine made of recycled receipts. A romance novel about a ghost who falls in love with a barista. I know these books aren’t here to be read. They’re here to make me feel like the kind of person who might read them. That person sounds fabulous.

Sometimes, friends ask, “Have you actually read any of these?” And I say, “No, but they’ve read me.” Then I blink dramatically and leave the room. This is my legacy. These books — untouched, uncracked, gloriously unread — are the most honest reflection of who I am: a woman of intentions, contradictions, and very good taste in lies.