May Issue
of I'm A Mess Magazine
May Issue
of I'm A Mess Magazine
May 2026
Editor’s Note:
Well, hello there!
I never quite know how to begin these editor’s notes, I don’t want them to feel repetitive from issue to issue, but I do know where I want to start: thank you.
Thank you to everyone who has submitted to I'm A Mess Magazine, sent kind messages, or supported this publication in quiet ways. Running a literary magazine can be overwhelming at times, and there are definitely moments where I question whether I’m doing enough. But every submission, message, and comment reminds me why I started this in the first place. You make this magazine feel alive, and I’m incredibly grateful for the light you bring to something that can occasionally feel chaotic behind the scenes.
This issue features seven poems that, despite their differences in style and voice, felt connected by a shared thread: emotional repression, burnout, and the breaking point that comes from holding too much inside for too long. These poems speak honestly about exhaustion, loneliness, anger, pressure, and the quiet decision to stop pretending everything is okay. There’s pain in these pieces, yes, but there’s also honesty, and I think that honesty highlights the mission and meaning behind I'm A Mess Magazine.
To everyone reading this: thank you for being here.
And to the writers featured in this issue: thank you for trusting this magazine with your work. I hope you know how deeply I appreciate not only your poetry, but the people behind it.
Now, with lots of gratitude and excitement, I’m honored to present:
The May 2026 Issue of I'm A Mess Magazine
Sincerely,
Isabel
“Puppet”
You walk around
with your chest puffed out.
King of the world,
whistling a happy little tune.
But I notice
how you hesitate-
just for a moment-
before you take a step.
They feed you
words of praise,
and you go blind.
Your movements fall into place.
Too certain.
They’ve already been decided.
Something tightens-
But now it is too late.
They have you
exactly where they want you.
Not free-
Just moving
when they pull.
buzz off bucko
get a life
I don't care
I honestly despise you
ur the problem
mind ur own beeswax
shut up
what's your problem
that's not fair
stop it
you're being mean to me
I disagree
you owe me an apology
You're definitely bullying me
You don't get to control my life
just stop it
no
please leave me alone, this isn't funny
I can do what I want
I don't deserve to be kicked out
Stop it now
I've never done anything to deserve this
that's hurtful
help me, someone
I don't like how you're treating me
Stopitstopitstopitstopit
that's really rude
you're really rude
guess what, I'm a person too
Stop it I don't deserve this
stop talking, you're wasting air
I don't want to be friends
Stop it, Im not joking actually stop
I don't understand why you're mean just stop it
you treat me like less than human
stop it, please
juststopityou'remakingmefeelworthlessandIdont knowifIambutIhopeImnotbutyoutreatmelikeIamandIdontunderstandwhybecauseIneverdidanythingtoyoujuststopbeforestopbefore
JUST STOP IT YOUR A TYRANT STOP IT
(...)
buzz off bucko
Yesterday, I came home angry.
I don’t know what to do,
but everything seemed
to know me–
the kind of anger girls
are allowed to keep.
The chair in the parlor stared.
The fridge watched me, waiting.
I hissed and ran upstairs.
undressed,
the silence,
the way they said
“good girls don’t talk like that.”
Back in the parlor,
my little sister waved
a plate of fried chicken–
laughing , teasing, free.
Mom called from the bathroom.
I answered softly,
like I had already been forgiven
for something I did not say.
Anty Ann sat with my half-brother,
guiding his homework,
her voice gentle–
a softness I have never worn.
Still angry.
still learning
how to swallow it whole.
Even when life
offered me a way out–
a word, a shout, a breaking–
I folded it back inside me.
Because everything knows me.
The walls.
The silence.
The rules I did not write.
And how a girl
must carry her fire
like it does not burn.
How are you doing?
They ask
Wanting to hear words of
Reassurance
That you’re fine
That all is well
Hoping you won’t dissolve
Or fall apart
As they stand and wait
For the answer to
How you are doing.
While your heart is filled with
Heaviness and tears
Emotional memories dragging you
Into a well of darkness.
How are you doing?
They smile,
Expectantly
Touching your arm while
Gazing into the distance
Hoping the swollen eyes
And slumped shoulders
Will fade as they talk
And you’ll look like you again.
It must be hard,
They say,
Waiting for words of denial
Affirmation that the pain
Has passed
That you’ll be getting on with life
And they can stop asking
How you are doing.
Shadows of times gone by
Darken the morning sun
Pulling you into past days of clouds and rain
As they listen for words
That release them
Permit them to move along
While they wait expectantly
So you swallow the feelings
Caught in your broken heart
Turn to them
And reply
Fine.
Stepped into the shower then stepped out
Wondering if I could take a break
From the roundabout route
Of being awake.
I figured the answer was no
So I just delayed duty's call,
Treating hormones to an imaginary show
While staring at the wall.
But 8 AM stops for no one
Whether or not they're willing to live,
Dragging them to the morning sun
As they pray routine's in a mood to forgive.
Guess I have to do this
And then I have to do that:
Wash my hair, brush my teeth, kiss the abyss
No matter where my strength's hiding at.
By the end of the day I feel battered
Though if I'm lucky, I'll see
That none of the hard stuff really mattered
As much as showing myself a little mercy.
The perfect week.
7 hours of study
7 hours of exercise
7 hours of dieting
Countless hours of tears.
Was it worth it?
The pain says no.
The brain says no.
The heart says no.
The mouth says yes.
Monday wake up - just about.
Tuesday wake up - after 3 hours of crying myself to sleep.
I can’t remember what day it is.
Or when I last ate a meal
Or when I last told the truth
Or when I last felt alive
But everyone says ‘you look great!’
Or ‘have you lost weight?’
Or ‘you seem so put together.’
Do I?
Because I don’t feel it.
I haven’t felt whole or functioning or human or happy since 11.
208 ‘perfect weeks’ later.
I want to scream.
I want to give up.
I want to run away.
But I can’t.
Because you wouldn’t approve.
And ‘I’m fine’ just doesn’t cut it anymore.
But that’s all my brain knows.
Honesty isn’t a part of me anymore.
None of my parts work anymore.
Except the part that carries me into one more ‘perfect week.’
i used to dress my feelings up
like they were going somewhere important—
big words, neat lines,
metaphors that made teachers nod.
but the truth is,
most days don’t feel like poetry.
they feel like
forgetting why you opened your phone,
like rereading a message
and still not knowing what to say back,
like laughing in a group
and wondering if anyone noticed
you went quiet halfway through.
i don’t think heartbreak
is always loud.
sometimes it’s just
not being anyone’s first thought.
sometimes it’s realizing
you could disappear for a day
and the world would still
clock in on time.
and i know—
that sounds dramatic.
but it isn’t, really.
it’s small.
it’s so small
you almost ignore it.
like a crack in the wall
you tell yourself is just paint.
i’m tired of fixing my sentences
so they sound meaningful.
half the time
i don’t even know what i mean.
i just know
there are things sitting inside me
that don’t have names yet—
and every time i try to label them,
they change shape.
so this is it.
no grand ending,
no line that ties everything together.
just me,
admitting
that i don’t always feel like
i belong in my own life.
and hoping
that counts as something.
Meet the Authors
Brittany Yates
Brittany Yates writes about absence, longing, and the things we learn to live with. Her work explores what is often left unsaid—what lives in the margins. She is new to publication, but not to writing.
Anna Not Artemis
Anna is not Artemis. Anna makes mistakes and gets wrapped up in her head and can't escape. Writing, specifically poetry, is her only key out of the asylum she lives in.
Chris Monday Anyigor
Anyigor Chris Monday is a Nigerian poet and educator from Ebonyi State. His work examines memory, history, power, and social violence, drawing on myth, oral tradition, and contemporary political realities to explore how private lives are shaped by public failure.
Gabrielle Yetter
Gabrielle Yetter is a former journalist and author of two non-fiction books about Cambodia, (where she lived) two children's books and a novel (Whisper of the Lotus). She has been writing poetry since lockdown in 2020 when she was inspired to write about people, lifestyles and hope. She lives in southern England.
Sam Hedrian
Sam Hendrian is a Los Angeles-based filmmaker, poet, and playwright striving to foster empathy through art. From writing personalized poems for passersby outside of LA's oldest independent bookstore every Sunday, to making Chaplin-esque silent films about loneliness and human connection once a month, Sam lives to make other people feel seen and validated. More work can be found on Amazon, YouTube, and in various online literary magazines.
Ffion Brown
Ffion Browne is a young poet and writer based in Wales. Her work captures teen life in formative years, exploring the highs, lows, pressures and many, many tears that transform who we are as people. To explore more of her poetry, follow her pinterest @ffi_br0wn3
Riddhima
riddhima writes about things she almost doesn’t say. her work lives in small moments, unsent messages, and quiet realizations that don’t always resolve. she is still figuring out what to do with the things that stay.
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