Stitches for Show.

Snap.
I heard his bones.
Crack.
The night was historically cold.

Shred.
I heard his flesh.
Red.
Practicing my only interest.

Screech.
I heard his pleas.
Meek.
His feeble attempt to be released.

Blink.
I heard his eyes.
Sleep.
He fell to rest beneath my knife.

Tink.
I heard my shovel.
Sink.
It hit cement and rubble.

Thud.
I heard his body.
Mud.
The one thing that caught me.

Shit.
I heard the siren.
Click.
My attempt at violence.

Splash.
I heard my brain.
Last.
It slung, warm, against the windowpane.