Dead Hibiscus

If I was a girl

I know exactly what kind

of vagina I'd have:

A dead hibiscus;

Yawning, stretching its major labium

to the sunlight,

Then succumbing to night

without water, sun;

Without soil, without fun.

It's sensitive but eager enough

to at least

consider growth

but separation from consciousness,

the rend from stem and thalamus

made one asexual but

never disturbing the drive.

I look to the penis.

He hangs his head, knowing,

Slinking back into

his heterogametic sleeping bag

inside a testosterone tent.

What a resplendent purple I would be!

Petals from any season.

I will settle for black

And refrain from mentioning that

it is not yet the new black,

else a worthy hibiscus

decides to come cut me.

Bees would come to tease

and get scared by the stigma.

Guess you'd have to like me for me

because it is very hard for me

to pretend at this point.

I'm not the cocoon c**t:

A dangling damsel

Waiting for incubation to expire.

I'm not a plate tectonic p***y hole:

a fissure along some exotic island

ready to spit and squirt sexy magma.

And I'm not flower-power vagina

because nature didn't care enough.

I was hidden by the bush.

I am the catatonic,

dead hibiscus.

Yearning and yawning.