by Vixie the Fox, slightly older, slightly wiser, slightly lying
Today I am twenty-seven.
Which, in fox years, is somewhere between
“I know who I am”
and
“I should probably start composting my emotional baggage.”
I lit a candle.
Sang myself a song in a key only squirrels could hear.
Ate a blueberry tart for breakfast
because Carl forgot again.
(It’s fine. He’s a pinecone. He has limitations.)
I told myself I feel older in the wise, whimsical way—
like a tree that’s finally okay with having moss in weird places.
But truthfully,
I feel a little haunted by the silence
where love still hasn’t shown up
holding flowers and bad decisions.
They say twenty-seven is when great writers
begin to truly unravel their brilliance.
And I cling to that idea
like it’s the only birthday card I got this year
(and maybe it is).
I keep waiting for someone to read my work and say,
“She’s a genius. Let’s send her acorns and affection.”
Instead, I got an ad for wrinkle cream
and a memory of kissing someone in a dream
who never showed up in real life.
Still, I walk.
Still, I write.
Still, I make my tea with too much honey
because something in me is desperate to keep things sweet.
Maybe love is taking the long way.
Maybe twenty-seven is where I bloom in private—
quiet petals under moonlight
no one’s noticed yet.
And maybe next year,
I won’t whisper “please let this be the last lonely birthday”
as I blow out the candle.
But for now—
I call this year mine.
Wrapped in ink,
cradled in fox-fur longing,
and stubbornly hopeful
that the best stories
take time.
