or if you do it then be right and if you are right be relentless like this was relentless when you spoke to that bitch she was just That Bitch and you were just A Good Guy and that was the first time My Lips wanted to be lips and they were just the lips that your little movers loaded in a van that lived in Norway like you live in a place that is so faraway my entrenched feelings have a way of making themselves known to know me is to know my mother’s bad English the time I charmed you with not wanting to not want to not take a shit in my pants which were yours the smell was also yours you gave me the constipated figurine I washed it like it was my own and it was your face that gave me the finest idea the idea of not having any more ideas was good enough if it meant saving the idea of you or the time you yanked metal from your hand which does not leave me even when my face is no longer a face and my ideas no longer ideas just the fine French doors you live inside like I live inside this promise like you live inside my dreams the best ones where you did not yet exist though I knew this fine universe would create you eventually and I would never stop thanking my mother for creating me too.

Notes: I pretty much decided to make this my emotion/voice/story poem when I read the title. The narrator's emotion and voice in this poem is obviously angry in the beginning, but starts to even out as the poem continues and slips into a more selective state, then grateful. The story is clear in the title and then the first few lines of the poem, but the story also slips into this less obvious state as the poem finishes.