She could run; she could hide. 

She could tear the truth apart inside. 

She could cry; she could lie.

She could refuse to ever ask herself why. 

She could haw; she could hem. 

She could run around with her legs open.

She could play prude; she could be rude.

She could cop her little attitude.

She could scream; she could shout. 

She could sit around and pout. 

She could be false; she could be phony. 

She could sell her soul for money. 

She could be alone; she could atone. 

She could move and she could leave her home. 

She could change people; she could change places; 

She could continue her disgraces. 

She could be mad; she could be offended; 

But her sins remained open-ended. 

She could play pious; she could play holy.

But her heresy stood for all to see. 

She could submit; she could marry again. 

But the paper and ring would be meaningless things. 

For whatever she did was based on prevarications within, 

To cover herself for her egregious sin, 

A sin that could not be erased on a whim, 

A transgression that required giving in to him.

And until that day, for better or for worse, 

Her soul was his through her self-inflicted curse. 

For she could not commit murder and walk away.