Man-Flower by Anonymous

I was born a Man-flower. Of course, no one else knows that. They think I’m just a regular flower. They pluck me and smell my hairs, pull my limbs off, drop them in jars until their blood oozes out, and they either rot or dry away. I don’t mind it all. I enjoy the pain of the infection, savour each second as I feel those old fragments of my body distance themselves from my consciousness. The pain dissolves, and what was once a vital limb becomes but a distant memory. I always feel every part of me, even if plucked, ripped, or taken away by gravity. Until it crumbles into nothing, I feel it, and I feel it intensely. 

On most days, I enjoy being a Man-flower, but it’s not the most eventful life. I mostly just stare into the sun all day. It gets really boring really quickly. Sometimes, though, my genitalia blooms into a plump fruit. It's a strange sensation, I feel it grow from a dense ball into a sweet succulent bag. A vital nectar is safely protected by walls of hard skin. It’s not necessarily a pleasant sensation, but at least it pulls me off the infinite tedium of ordinary life. Oh, and it’s such a relief when someone finally rips it out of me. I never realise how heavy it gets until the weight is finally released from me. 

If asked, I’d say I enjoy being a Man-flower, but in reality, I can’t really help being that. The long winters leave my body crippled, cold and hard. I yearn for the boring plentitude of the sun and endure the suffering till spring. When spring comes, my body relaxes, I get warmer and fuzzier and feel just enough relief that my Man-Flower life seems worth continuing. And then, to mock my newfound peace, I unwillingly begin to replicate, and my consciousness automatically extends to a newly born, hard, dense ball of my fruiting body. 

I like it when they peel it, skinning the fruits of my awareness and devouring its juices. I like to have my fingers pulled out from my body one by one. This physical pain distracts me from the horrors of boredom, and from my ordinary Man-flower thoughts. ‘He loves me’, ‘He loves me not’, ‘He loves me’, ‘He loves me not’... she alternates starting from my big toe. Sadly, he never loves her. My 20 fingers leave no room for hope, as she eventually lands on unmatched love. 

People like to show off their locomotion to me. Moving their limbs as if it's the most natural thing in the world. And don’t get me started on birds. Soaring the sky like the flamboyant, arrogant exhibitionists they are. Meanwhile, I’m stuck here, rooted to the floor, being nothing but a Man-Flower. Staying nothing but a Man-flower. For 3 million years, I’ve been a Man-Flower. I’ve fed more species than there are people on Earth. My body went from a single man-stem to a man-field covering the soil of distant continents. I’ve seen the course of history, and it bored me more than staring into the sun. I’ve mingled with fungi, poisoned livestock and adorned the houses of humans. I’ve been stepped on, chewed on, digested and excreted. And through it all, I just couldn't help but go on existing. 

Okay, fine, I fucking hate being a Man-flower. Why are there no more Man-flowers like me? It’s just so painfully lonely. There’s only man-men, woman-women and flower-flowers. And yet for some reason, I was born a Man-flower.