by Vixie the Fox, tail enthusiast, unlicensed sage
Behold—my tail:
a floofed flag of minor glory,
a poetic punctuation mark that says
“Yes, I have trauma, but I’m also stunning.”
It’s a weather vane for mood swings.
A barometer for bad ideas.
A socially inappropriate emotional support object
that’s also great at dusting bookshelves I never read.
When I walk, it floats
like a decadent question mark
that never gets answered
but always flirts with possibility.
It is a cape.
A shield.
A duvet made of unresolved feelings
and last Tuesday’s pine needles.
It’s not just fluff—
it’s narrative.
When I am sad, I wrap it around myself
like a scarf knitted from ancient prophecies.
When I am angry, it bristles with the fury
of a raccoon denied cheese.
Sometimes it gets stuck in things.
Like fences.
Or emotional attachments.
But I forgive it.
Because it forgave me
that time I tried to dye it purple
during an identity crisis.
In conclusion:
my tail is my therapist, my sword,
and occasionally my spoon.
And if you touch it without consent,
I will write a passive-aggressive limerick about you.
