1. You choose to run. 
  2. You choose not to see.
  3. You choose to die.
  4. His eyes aren’t windows.
    They’re keyholes,
    and you’ve always been good
    at picking locks. You open
    him up, make him doubt, make him
  5. It’s a slow, casual breakdown;
    it’s a lesson; it’s will. He only
    hits you once, only one hundred times
    less than you deserve. 
  6. You lost the key, and the locks
    have been changed. He’s got secrets
    in his palms, and you realize later
    you never asked to hold his hand. 
  7. You think (maybe) what if angels
    (angels) can’t (don’t) choose (need)
    how (to) to live (breathe)?
  8. He’s learned how to say no.
    And you know you’re the one
    who taught him about free will
    but you want to hold him, shake
    him, beg him: please,
    please, choose me.