Another As-If Army

Look at you struggle
for a grip on a throat
so safely out of reach
and a fist in a leering grin
shattering perfect teeth.

As if tearing them apart
would accomplish anything
but scattered limbs
and yet a sea of untidy,

just as red as when you
leaked your defeat
onto the white and soft
that was supposed
to welcome and shelter.

As if vengeance disguised
in the sheep's cloth of justice
at your ever so incapable hands
would somehow transform
to alleviation and remedy
of what suddenly snapped,

and left you disfigured
to spit venomous sentiments
so terrible to the voice
but still so beautiful to the
semantically oblivious eye.

As if you could ever undo
and shove my personal
misdirected mantra of all
the as-if that I cling to
down my defensive throat,

once and for all proving
my own evasion as wrong
as it deserves to be,

Please,
struggle for me.