Founding Issue
of I'm A Mess Magazine
Founding Issue
of I'm A Mess Magazine
February 2026
Editor’s Note:
I’m A Mess Magazine started as a small idea — a dream, really. A thought that there should be a place where people can feel safe enough to share the messy things inside that are sometimes hard to say out loud. So, we put them into poetry. With a little bit of research, a lot of learning, and a website later, that idea has become tangible and real.
This founding issue brings together writers who explore what it means to feel deeply in a world that often asks us to grow too quickly, stay quiet, or make sense of everything before we are ready. These poems each hold immense emotion: frustration, imagination, vulnerability, and the complicated beauty of finding your way through life. Every voice here is different, yet together they create a conversation — one that gently pushes back against what the world expects of us, and what we expect of ourselves, reminding us that none of us are alone in what we carry.
To every contributor: thank you for trusting this space with your words. And to every reader: thank you for being here at the very beginning.
Now, may I present:
The Founding Issue of I’m A Mess Magazine
Sincerely,
Isabel
Now the port is in
There’s already hair coming out in my hand
I’ll watch as more drifts downward
Like the hourglass watches the sand
Trying to find the positivity
But it feels elusive today
Beautiful like a butterfly
Can’t catch it as it flies away
And the leaves will be turning soon
So lovely as they die
I’ll never get up today
If I don’t stop sitting here wondering why
So I got up anyway
I did it anyway
Even though it hurt
I got up and started my day
I did it anyway
You walk by the table,
Crumbs scattered on the wood,
So you grab a rag
And wipe it to look as it should.
The butter dish is empty,
Grease inside and out,
So you scrub it clean
And try not to pout.
Your anger simmers
As you mop the floor,
Because the house isn’t clean
But it isn’t really about the chore.
Frustration etches deep
As you see the fridge too full,
So you reorganize and remove,
Trying to stay whole.
You know it’s not fair to yell at people,
So you slap soap on the counter instead,
Losing yourself in the act of service,
Rinsing the anger from your head.
Cleaning is more than just a job
It’s a motion of calm,
Something you can control,
A quiet symphony, a psalm.
So yes, it’s frustrating
When you’re serene and someone intervenes,
But you have to remember,
There’s always something to clean.
They’d say, “She’s mature,” with a proud little nod,
and I took it as praise, like a blessing from God.
But growing up early can feel like a shove—
you learn to be steady instead of be loved.
And I wore that sweet label as best as I could,
not knowing “too grown” never meant “understood.”
They’d hand me their worries like books to be stored,
stacked high on my shoulders I never ignored.
I carried their stories, the bitter and sweet,
mistaking the weight for a personal feat.
I thought being helpful made everything good,
not seeing how much of myself I withstood.
I learned to be careful with every reply,
to measure my words so no one would sigh.
I polished my manners, my timing, my tone,
a child with the posture of someone full-grown.
And every small triumph felt like it should—
a quiet reminder to stay what I “could.”
I’d watch other kids being loud, being free,
a little bit jealous of who I might be.
But I played the role that the elders admired,
the one who was calm when the others got tired.
I followed the script that they thought childhood would,
forgetting that joy also needed a foothold.
And somewhere along all the trying to please,
I learned to speak softly, to move with a breeze.
To listen too closely, to bend when they’d lean,
to hide all the parts that felt messy or keen.
I grew in the spaces they thought that I should,
while learning that silence wasn’t always good.
Of course you can have it,
you asked so politely.
I give you my pinky,
it wasn’t useful anyway.
A gorgeous calla lily takes its place.
I like it better, so it's okay.
You need an eye?
Of course you do,
I knew there was a reason I had two.
A pink hydrangea takes its place.
I love it so much,
that I do not complain,
when you reach into my chest,
and rip my right lung away.
In its stead is a wonderful rose.
I barely notice when its thorns start to grow.
You come so often now,
sometimes you bring others.
You take both my arms,
but that is okay,
because the willow branches,
are more majestic anyway.
You take both my legs,
but it's fine.
Now I have strong trunks,
and I disliked movement in any case.
My only complaint,
that I can’t run away.
So you begin to take from me,
everyday.
The fear creeps in when you take my other eye.
I can no longer see the beauty,
and I begin to cry.
But it only worsens the pain.
As my tears water the rose,
and the thorns pierce my skin.
You came today and asked for my heart.
I told you no,
but you didn't stop.
Just snatched it yourself.
It was replaced with an anthurium.
Which I suppose is close enough,
after all, it is heart shaped.
And I can’t exactly escape.
My hair becomes begonias,
my veins turn to briars.
Till even my skin is nothing but petuntias.
Yet still you come each day.
When I think there's nothing left to take.
You find something new,
and the vines tighten,
and the thorns grow,
and the roots deepen.
Until finally,
you request my brain.
It’s all that I have.
But I know you’ll take it anyway.
So I use my last conscious thought,
and I give it away.
Fiction is eerily sewn into reality.
Carefully
Precisely.
The threads are barely there
Yet so palpable .
You need to wear the hushed fabric over your chest
Your head
Your eyes
Your flesh
Everywhere where danger lurks.
You were three,
When they taught you the language of what you were supposed to become.
You were five,
When you learned it.
You were twelve,
When the fabric felt suffocating.
You were fourteen,
When you saw through the blindfolds.
And now my dear,
You're too tired to even sleep
I see the thread between your teeth...
Dreams are not all Rainbows and sunshine,
They melt onto your tongue
Till you can't taste your own thoughts
Till your brain is filled with fog
Till you forget to wake up
And slip away.
Slowly.
Lose yourself.
Like playing a game you know you’re losing but the controller is glued to your hands and the exit button is nowhere on the screen.
Breathe.
Breathe like you have been pushed underwater your entire life and now you're being reeled back up but just for a second before you're left to drown again.
Breathe like it's your last gulp of air.
The fabric is drenched.
It clings to you like it's a part of you
And now, it is.
You forgot to set an alarm
You forgot this was a dream
You've forgotten your existence now.
You overlooked the threads of fiction and reality.
You made a mistake.
You flipped a coin hoping for heads or tails but the coin turned into chains mid air and now you're trapped.
Caged.
You made a mistake, dear
It's too late to apologize now.
The forgiveness will choke you
Mercilessly .
You lost the game you were supposed to never play.
You became the prey of your own hunger,
The audience to your own demise.
You lost to yourself.
Game Over.
My life is over and so is my fame
No one remembers my charm and my name
I’ll die all alone, ruined, forgotten
I used to be loved, yet now I am rotten.
I’ve gotten boring, bland and plain
All I can show is laughter, not pain
And people got tired of my endless joy
I’m now thrown away like a burden, a toy.
My words lost their meaning, my soul lost its shine
I vanish, the world is no longer mine
Oh, how I wish to be worshipped, adored
But now all I am is despised and ignored.
The stage is empty, I am alone
The crowd is gone and I lost my throne
Yet I keep dancing, ashamed, in despair
Someone, please notice me, someone, please care!
And the candle that burns in my stomach,
the wax coating my throat.
The sly liquid,
coaxing my insides into horrendous mutiny.
I’m screaming carbon monoxide.
A job half done called toxic.
Given far too much credit under the glorified title.
The poison embedded within my layers of distasteful mortal flesh.
Bleeding out my eyes.
Bleeding.
Pouring, uncontrollable.
Out of control.
and it’s hot, and it’s suffocating.
Until all my insides are ashes.
And I’m sorry,
I’m sorry.
The grey, unbothered colour of my insides protrude through my eyes.
Through the light that catches them,
reserved for a critical observation.
Light,
Light, the messenger that dances with time in their endless grace and beauty.
In their wrathful romance.
Wrath, So much emotion, uncontained.
Out of control.
Sensation so unique, to enquire is to question and to question is stupid.
A chill, that electrifies the heart cold.
Light, light the ingredient.
Igniting photosynthesis in the flowers that grow out of my lungs,
the stunning flowers that gag the harshness of the truth, yet still blissfully penetrate silence.
But they pick at the petals,
assuming they will grow back.
And they will.
And they do.
And maybe they will blossom and bloom a new kind of beauty,
one that allows wisdom and intelligence to bloom.
But I liked the authentic beauty.
I liked how the original roots surrounded my heart,
in a natural embrace that kept exterior predators from corroding the kindness.
They pick at the petals.
Even if I like the colour.
They pick at the petals,
especially when they think it’s pretty.
Beauty.
Even when the thorns claw at my throat.
An organic barbed wire,
used to cave in my animalistic, deeply, disgusting human emotions.
And I bleed.
I bleed sincere, dangerously pure, raw feeling.
The muscles in my neck contracting back, like I wish I originally had.
The regret of vulnerability.
Of course they only want the petals.
The thorns are too sharp,
far too deeply wounding.
However, I laugh.
I laugh until I’m dry, in my pool of bleeding.
But not red.
Not red.
Red.
I like the colour red.
It’s underrated yet so overwhelmingly broadcasted it sits in the middle.
The middle of too good and not good enough.
The simplicity of the concept, so poetic.
extravagance is a veneer.
periwinkle.
Purple.
And I laugh.
I laugh at the stupidity,
the utter despair of all this nonsense.
and I laugh when people tell me it’s legible.
and they're inhaling the carbon monoxide.
But there’s no batteries,
so just an alarm.
That won’t sound.
A silent siren.
Exclusive to a certain fine ear.
That won’t hear my cries.
My cries for help are hoarse.
Drowning.
And I can’t swim.
And you can.
But you won’t save me.
And I’m bleeding.
I’m bleeding.
But not red.
Meet the Authors
Writers featured in the Founding Issue
Amy C Carmichael
Amy C. Carmichael is a poet whose work explores love, grief, mental health and addiction, healing, and hope. She is a licensed professional counselor currently living with advanced cancer and finding purpose in sharing her story, through language rooted in transformation, and testimony. Her writing focuses on emotional honesty and resilience. Her first poetry collection, Shadows of Hope, is in progress. You can find her on Instagram as @AmesCarmichael, and Facebook and TikTok as Amy Collins Carmichael.
Kaye K.
Kaye K. is a writer who enjoys poetry as a way to organize her emotions and thoughts. Her work explores growing up, the quiet complexities of everyday life, and the coping mechanisms that sometimes emerge along the way — giving voice to feelings that are often hard to say out loud. She is drawn to storytelling, honest reflection, and often views poetry as a conversation with her Savior, Jesus.
Varnika
Bio unavailable
WritingTillMidnight
WritingtillMidnight writes poetry that explores deep emotions, trauma, and the complexities of human experience. Her work is characterized by visceral imagery and an honest, raw voice. She’s passionate about expressing difficult truths and forging genuine connections through her intense and evocative writing. When she's not writing, she enjoys reading and sipping cranberry pineapple juice.
Zyra
Zyra is an aspiring poet and singer-songwriter who blends elevated imagery with raw emotional honesty. She posts her works on her pinterest account (zyra_music) and is currently working on quiet some intriguing poetry collections. Music, poetry, and philosophy drive her life and she eagerly welcomes any love and connections.
Venus
She's a young poet who navigates through her confusing life with joy and verses. Poetry keeps her grounded and cheerful. She first started poetry when she was around 10-11 years old, and fell in love with it since then. Despite poetry being her main passion, she's got other interests such as tennis, chess, and any form of art: mostly reading, writing and drawing. Her favorite books are mostly classics, such as The Picture of Dorian Gray by Wilde or other books of the sort. Not many fixed or stable projects right now, just focusing on life with love and happiness!
EnglxshTea
Bio unavailable