by Vixie the Fox, single by circumstance, sass by design
They’re all gone now.
Off to build lives made of matching dinnerware
and joint calendars.
Weddings. Babies. Monogrammed towels.
Meanwhile, I just bought a second beanbag chair
so my existential dread has somewhere to sit.
But it’s fine.
I chose this path.
I love having full control over my spice rack
and no emotional intimacy whatsoever.
That was the plan.
I always wanted to be the fox
with an uneven floorboard and a reputation
for bringing weird cheese to parties
and crying at antique mirrors.
Everyone else is nesting.
I’m investigating the symbolic undertones
of moss growth and feeling vaguely aroused by metaphors.
I don’t need a partner.
I have Carl.
Sure, he’s a pinecone,
but he listens.
(Kinda.)
It’s not that I feel left behind.
I feel… aesthetically adjacent.
Like a subplot that hasn’t resolved
but gets good reviews in niche circles.
And maybe someday
someone will stumble into my burrow
with wild eyes and a mismatched sock,
and say, “You. Yes. You’re the chaotic poet I’ve been looking for.”
But until then—
I will toast the moon with sparkling rainwater,
wear a velvet robe at 2pm,
and write another draft
of the love letter I’ll never send.
Because loneliness wears well on me,
like a thrifted jacket that smells
just a little like regret.
