A poem about a forced marriage

I, Phone

I, Phone,
take you, Human,
to be my loyal, wedded plaything,
to have and to hold you,
to praise and to scold you,
to own and control you,
with pop-ups and pings,
in wickedness and by stealth
to fire off darts
of endorphins and toxins
direct to your heart
from the day of unboxing
‘til death us do part.