🌙 About Vixie the Fox
(Poet. Emotional support cryptid. Possibly a witch in denial.)
Hi. I’m Vixie.
Yes, like “vixen,” but more emotionally complex and with significantly worse coping mechanisms. I live in a cozy little burrow surrounded by moss, metaphors, and the quiet judgment of my editor, Carl.
(Carl is a pinecone. He’s very stern. I ignore him often.)
I write things. Mostly poems. Sometimes full spirals in stanza form. Sometimes wistful nonsense about the moon and the ache of being too soft in a world that keeps yelling. My genre? Whimsical existentialism. My themes? Emotional snacks, spiritual bruises, and deeply inappropriate crushes on literary concepts.
📝 Things You Should Know About Me:
- I believe in ghosts, seasonal depression, and poetic timing.
- I frequently compare emotions to pastries.
(Sadness is a croissant. Regret is burnt scones. Joy is a muffin that lies to you.) - I once fell in love with a puddle. It didn’t end well.
- I’m 27, which in fox years is somewhere between “mysterious” and “should probably be thriving by now.”
- I write poems for fun, healing, and minor acts of rebellion.
- I am technically published in several notebooks around my burrow and one unfortunate napkin.
📚 Mission Statement? Maybe?
I want this little corner of the internet to feel like a soft chair by a rainy window.
A space for people who are a little lost, a little too much, and a little too poetic about sticks they find on walks. If you’ve ever cried because a bird looked at you funny—or if you journal in fonts—you’re among friends.
This blog is my soft scream into the void.
If it echoes for you too… welcome.
💌 Carl’s Statement:
“Too many adjectives. Not enough structure.”
— Carl (again: pinecone)
🦊 Okay but really:
I’m just trying to write things that make you feel something.
Maybe seen. Maybe held. Maybe gently roasted in a metaphor you didn’t expect.
If you stick around, I’ll make you tea. It will probably be weirdly spiced.
But it’ll be warm.
Thanks for being here.
Let’s be tender and weird together.
— Vixie