an update | a little love letter

hello humans ☺︎

i’ve been trying to figure out how to begin this update/little love letter without being too weird about it, but after a ton of different permutations there’s really no getting around it because weirdness is in my bloodstream so, uh, hi *nervous giggle* and welcome (back) to Writer Sometimes.

i’ve always been a book junkie, some would say a touch on the precocious side, so words have been with me since i was old enough to recognise what they were. when i started writing, however, there was very little intentionality behind it. i was dealing with the death of my favourite uncle just days before my 13th birthday and there was a restless tinge to my grief, like my heart was crumpling and my head was going to explode. on a whim i tore a page out of the phonebook and picked up a permanent marker, and a few minutes later my first poem was born. i haven’t been able to function without writing ever since, and i have piles and piles of journals chock-full of my preteen issues (reading through old diaries is scary, y’all), teenage angst and adolescent growing pains. as i continue to evolve, so do those musings. writing is intensely personal for me. i don’t believe in writing for the sake of writing (yeah i said it). for me to write is to feel, and if the latter is missing, writing becomes disingenuous. thankfully (or not), the combination of me being a libra and an enfj means i have no shortage of feelings, but the point is my pen and my limbic system are deeply intertwined. hence the name of this space.

so why did i start this blog?

there are thousands of blogs on this here interwebs, most of them geared towards visibility and a very deliberate message. they tend to be littered with imperative statements ranging in topic from how to grow natural hair to how to get your first million by the time you’re 25. i’m a consumer of many of those blogs, and think many of them are brilliant and have brought their owners great success. but by no means am i interested in reproducing them or being part of the blogosphere writ large. a year and a bit ago i showed a poem to a friend. she didn’t even know i wrote, and encouraged me to post it on social media. a few glasses of wine later, inhibitions severely lowered, i did it. the flood of commentary and general warm fuzziness made me choke on my cheap moscato. all types of people, those i never expected to have read anything i’d written and those who’d known me for years, friends and professors, people familiar to me and strangers, were finding comfort, joy, healing and all kinds of other feels in my words. it was kind of startling to be honest. but i continued to share, at least what was comfortable to share. at a point social media became treacherous territory and the words demanded a home. so here i came.

i wasn’t really sure what i was doing but i was doing it all the same. and now, a year later, there are people subscribing to this space and it feels like an intimate conversation every time i post something. this blog is not meant for mass consumption. it’s designed for those who led to its creation in the first place. those who stumble on it and then stick around. the little family that’s amassed along the way.

so, on that note, bye humans. thanks for seeing something in me that i never really saw myself.

k, enough mush. more words soon come.


– B

manual on loving broken humans through the moments of their brokenness


  1. facilitate rest.
    – when they can not talk because they are too tired give them respite
    – allow stillness without loneliness
    – when weary of wearing their heart on them like a winter coat take it off them and store it gently
  2. build dependability.
    – be solid and unyielding for them to fall on when their knees give out
    – share freely of yourself before they have to ask
    – cherish tears like you do laughter and never allow them to feel as though it is just water now when they cry
  3. nurse as with illness.
    – offer chicken soup and tv shows and lilies and a warm shoulder
    – do not dismiss the healing power of hand holding
    – tend and be tender and love tenderly when they grow stiff from tending their own garden
  4. remind them why you are there.
    – show sometimes instead of telling because sometimes the telling is unconvincing
    – tell sometimes instead of showing because it is easy to forget
    – grow patterns and routines and traditions and initiate so give life to the union itself  and it never has to suffer neglect
  5. be genuine.
    – above all love in truth
    – do no not allow the feeling of burden to make a home in their minds
    – that will unravel all of the work that has been done thus love in totality or love not at all


Photo Credit: Yagazie Emezi


i am soft and i am breaking
tender like breasts or berries dipped in wine
i am drenched and i am heady
with shadows of greys and blacks
i am open like the ocean
whispering whispering whispering
i am light and wavering
far as the magellanic cloud

to love is to be strong they say
to love yourself twice so
strength weighs heavy on these bones
no body shares my load
no body thinks i need it

sometimes i want to fold like origami
sometimes i want to hide away
sometimes i want to know how to need
sometimes i want…

hold me like the most delicate bird
aloft like lily or daisy or virgin in the green
take photographs of my contours
like i’m worthy of your film
or you’re good at make pretend
rain water makes me pure
almost white if it pours hard enough
can you see me behind the sleet?
can you see me behind the sleet?

writer’s block

i have poems lodged in my throat
like a lump of tears or a stubborn ball of pap
corks in my bottles of unthinkables
i taste words that have gone bad
matadors waving with reckless abandon
i choke when i try to yell in my sleep
dreaming of white coats and white dresses
when i smile my teeth are stained bright red
from these battlegrounds:
anxiety – 1
me – 0

Back Pain

my b(l)ack is cracking,
a makeshift thing,
the kind you’d assemble out of
scrap metal, broken pieces of trash and the grace of god,
fused together by withered hands striped and shaking,
my b(l)ack bleeds borrowed blood,
blood borrowed from my Grandmothers’ broken bodies.

my b(l)ack keeps on cracking,
it does not belong to me,
i am not upright of my own volition,
you dare to call me self-indulgent for
revelling in the royalty of my own ancestry,
do i not, after all they lived through and died for,
(those Women… my god, those Women)
deserve to speak over and over of their sacrifice,
cry again and again for their unshed tears.

my b(l)ack won’t stop cracking,
and these pages can’t contain me,
and the world won’t suddenly love me tomorrow,
the ache is where they touch me,
god gave me the wrath of my Grandmothers,
my b(l)ack folds and my b(l)ack bends,
and it cracks and it cracks and it cracks.

PC: Yagazie Emezi (