You could shove-in the biggest ******* blade into my chest and I-
I won’t hurt you back.
I won’t even cry.
I won’t ask you to stop.
I won’t curse you.
I won’t protest.
I will help you instead; Even if the pain kills me in the process.
I will lend you my hands when yours start to weaken.
Slit my throat to make sure my words won’t get a voice.
And if it helps, think of me as the thanksgiving turkey ready to get carved.
I will in fact make sure you are always alive in my poetry.
Every time I’ll struggle for words,
and every time my sentences will cry for meaning;
You, sir, will make sure my poems are breathing.