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Compartment 114
Compartment 114
Dead Hibiscus

Dead Hibiscus

A Poem by Jason Henry

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.

© 2014 Jason Henry


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2080 Views
Added on November 4, 2014
Last Updated on November 4, 2014
Tags: vagina, hibiscus, flower, sex

Author

Jason Henry
Jason Henry

Somewherelse, Jamaica



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"Some moments are nice, some are nicer, some are even worth writing about." - Charles Bukowski, War All The Time more..

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