If This Is Poetry

If this is poetry,
I would rather you fill
A thousand syringes
With ink from unwritten words,
Inject them into my veins
Until the poison spills from my pores.

If this is poetry,
Turn your rusty sawblade on,
Press it against my wrists
until my bones turn to dust.
I promise not to write anymore.

If this is poetry,
Cement my feet to cinderblocks,
Feed me to the hungry mouth of a volcano
To quench the thirst of its molten core.
Until it spits me out in fiery vomit.

If this is poetry,
Lock me in a room with burning pages
Of every poetic book in history.
Until my lungs fill with smoke of
Sorrows, regrets, loss, love.
I will embrace whatever tragedy awaits.

If this is poetry,
Strip me bare of my own skin,
Submerge my body in a lake
Of hydrofluoric acid.
I will swim to the bottom
Until my limbs dissolve to nothing.

If this is poetry,
Cut open my chest in cold blood,
Salvage whatever is left
of my pathetic heart.
Hide it- no one will witness what you've done.
Sow my lips shut, they won't say a word.

If this is poetry,
Tell me again that you love me
As you watch me drown
In my self-created ocean.
Let me see your perfect smile.
Gritting your teeth while you hold me under.

If this is poetry,
I don't want to write it anymore.