happy 37, you fierce comet đź’«
Thirty-seven isn’t a warning—
it’s a sharpened edge, a steadier pulse,
a mountain path that finally knows its height.
I carry my years like beads,
not to worship time,
but to aim it.
I am done asking permission.
I am the yes I needed,
the door I walk through.
Let the world keep its noise—
I keep my fire.
Today I choose the long road,
and it chooses me.