Even though you never ask, I send you an arm.

I do it happily, it bids me no harm.

You must want to implore me for yet another leg,

It's on its way, you don't have to beg.

Are my body parts worse than the other?

Don't worry, my dear, I can get another.

You've taken these body parts, and promised to be my lover,

But, then you asked, how did I recover?

I've sent you ten arms, four hearts, five ribs, thirty-two eyes, and more, it's no lie.

Well, my darling, I never said these body parts came off of me, now did I?

An Arm In The Mail

Some say that love is a most grand feeling – that love is a feeling like no other, and in a good way. The feeling of a beautiful desire, a perfect union of two who share this love, that is about what they say. They say that love is the ability to go through the depths of their own personal hell while never passing, just to come back, see your love, and know it's all okay. They say that love is passion.

Others, however, will say that love is something of a bitter medication that, no matter how much you take it, refuses to aid your sickness. They curse love, and carve the melancholy of love into the flesh, bleeding and aching. The feeling of aching with never met infatuation, the having gone through a personal hell without passing, and never coming back, because there is no love to be returned to you. They say that love is agony.

It's with both of these types of feelings that Kenny was in love. He'd feel as though he were floating on air, and then there would be pain and blood, and quite a lot of it. It was not Love's fault this man was to face such pain and melancholy. You see, from birth, he was cursed to face death repetitively, only to return to his quarters from the afterlife each night after, looking as though it had never happened, unharmed, in perfect health. A torn of arm would return, a lost brain would be found, all by the morning tide, and without his doing. But do believe me when I say this, he did constantly wish to perish, and not return in the morning.
But then, from afar, he witnessed a most beautiful man. He had skin of a frail pale, with a slender waist and strong arms and legs. His hair was made of millions of wickedly beautiful, luscious curls of orange-red, which he hid greedily underneath a green ushanka. Not only was he beautiful, but he was courageous and intelligent. His intentions could not hold grudges, and any of his peers and colleagues could agree that he was always disregarding his own beliefs and opinions to help others, no matter how great the danger may be. Kyle, his name was.
O, how could one not fall as deeply in love with this man? To call him a man would be offensive, as the appropriate term was obviously something more closely to what one would call one of the gods. O, gods! Did they create this man just to spite the admiring Kenny? Cruel they be!
One day, while Kenny rested in a shallow river, bleeding from a horrid head wound, he had a most delightful idea. Why not woo this man? Oh, but, alas, Kenny was stricken by poverty, and knew that he could not buy his love a gem, nor could he present him with the luxurious home he deserved. He could not even present him with wine. What on earth could he send him, then? But, O! A new idea came to him! "I'll send him my heart!" said he, dying, "By gods, what could be more romantic? He'd never forget it! What other man could deliver their love their own heart?"
And so, the next morning, when Kenny awoke in perfect health in his bed, he hurried to his carcass and ripped out the dead heart. Once he had the heart, he called upon a fine, regal bird of black, and sent it off with the heart in its beak.
The bird flew to Kyle with quickness, arriving in pleasant time to the man, walking alone in the snow-covered streets of his town. The bird rested before him, holding out the heart with generosity.
"Black bird, what lies in your mouth?" said Kyle as he took the decaying heart into his hands, "O, villainous bird! Where is your source of parts? Have you committed a murder?"
But, the bird flew off, leaving the man with the heart of his admirer.
When the bird returned, Kenny smiled with joy, knowing he'd been triumphant in swooning his love – so much that, the following day, he decided to send another part.
This day, he decided to send his left eye. He did not perish upon its removal, but easily retrieved a scalpel and plucked it out of his skull. He sent it away with the bird again, telling it, "Find my dearest and send him this, for it shall be a symbol that he is all I see. He is clever, and shall understand my use of symbolism. Make haste, dare you not keep my love waiting!"
And so, the bird flew off, finding the admired man in good timing as he sat in his lonesome in a park blanketed in snow. It swooped down, landing beside him upon the bench with the eye hanging in its slender beak. With apprehension, Kyle took the eye and said, "What is this? Murderous bird, if I had thought you to judge, I'd assume you judge me as a cannibal."
But, the bird flew off, leaving Kyle with the eye of his admirer.
The bird returned to Kenny, who had bandaged his bleeding face with care. Assured of the mission's success, Kenny fell over onto his bed with a smile, so happy that he was smiling with glee even in his sleep.
When the morning came, he had yet another spectacular idea of how to swoon his love. He would send written love, he would! So, he quickly penned a note, forcing all of his love and admiration into his quill and etched it into his stationary. When he finished his letter, he politely put it onto an envelope, which he may tie into his arm. But, as he went to tie it, he realised of the flimsiness of his ribbon. O, how easily it was untied! It was ineffable that it may fall from his arm, and thus his love would never receive his written love! He needed something different-he needed something better. So, he searched through his belongings for stronger tools for tying. String was too thin, rope was too thick. Ribbon was to flimsy, but barbed wire was just right! Barbed wire would dig into his flesh; it would never fall from him. Nor was it too thick, or thin, it was the perfect fit. So, Kenny slapped his letter onto his left arm, tying it to him with the selected tool. His arm grew bloody and sore and he could help not but feel weak and let out a pained cry. He did not hesitate, only stopping with the painful process of tying when the note was secure against his arm and rich blood trickled from his forearm, down his fingertips, and to his feet.

Then, he grabbed a hatchet from his collection of cutting tools and readied it over his left shoulder. He chopped off his arm, crying out in pain as the blade of his hatchet dug into his flesh, ripping the muscle of breaking through the bone. "Do not waste your time," he told the bird as he gave it the severed arm, bleeding profusely and disgustingly onto his clothing and onto the floors and walls, "Deliver my gift to my beloved Kyle and make haste. Assure him to read my letter, or he shall not know of my name. Hurry, creature!"

So the bird took off, flapping its wings with great strength, and flying through the clouds with great speed. He arrived just before the sun set behind the mountains, with the benevolent Kyle sitting with his books as company outside his house door.

"An arm, now?" said he, "You must be sharing a collection, or framing me of murder. Oh, a note? Lethal bird, why did you tie in painful wire?"

Kyle took the arm from the bird, being as careful as he could as he took the note from between the barbed wire and the arm. He opened the envelope and took out the letter, reading with gentle curiosity.

My dearest Kyle,

I regret to inform you that I have fallen in love with you. I know how this may trouble you, as I am a simple, common boy who can afford naught. But, I do have gifts to offer you. While it is true that my parts are petite and starved of protein and muscle, I give them to you as a token of my love. You are always so lonely, I've seen. But, I understand, you just hide your voice, because others are not worthy of that perfection that I've only heard from across the plain. You are clever. I can tell by your constant holding of fat and tedious books. So, my symbolism shall reach you precisely. Should you accept my things, and my bird is to come back with nothing, I shall know that you are my lover. Worry not; the removal of these parts is fatal to none. If I am to die, I shall return in the morn. My love shall reach you endlessly, I can assure you.

Your ever loving admirer,

Kenny McCormick

Kyle cringed, a most uncomfortable expression upon his beautiful face. He returned the limb and the note to the bird, saying unto it, "Your master is absurd."

He left, and so did the bird. When it returned to Kenny's chambers, it gave him the arm and the letter. Kenny, heavily bandaged and still bloody, tossed them to his feet as his eyes filled with tears. It was obvious to him what the response was.

That night, he fell into a most melancholy slumber, tears staining his cheeks with sorrow, constant waking took place before the sun even rose above the mountains.

!

Loneliness and solitude are not the same.

Loneliness is a sad emotion, one that most of us have felt. Loneliness would imply a longing for company, or distaste for the lack of it. My dearest Audience, surely you have felt it. Some feel is constantly. Others feel it less often. I can only describe Loneliness as a sort of emptiness, or, perhaps, as a sort of woeful wanting. Loneliness – being excluded. Being ever so knowing of your dearest companion indulging in bountiful company, while you must sit on your bed with only yourself and the moon to keep you company, and so, you think to yourself, "Well, at least I enjoy myself enough to talk to it." The constant knowledge that, while others are laughing, and playing, and in the pleasant presence of others, you are forced to be alone, even though you could very much go for some laughter, because you haven't truly laughed recently, have you? Loneliness is a sad feeling, one that most of us have felt.

Solitude is very different. Solitude is the enjoyment of your own, private company. Solitude is good, it is something you enjoy. Some enjoy is more than others, while some find it detestable under most circumstances. I shall describe it as a relaxing and quiet lack of others. Sitting down and taking in a deep breath, and you think, "At last I am away from those horrible creatures known as People!" Having the ability to lie down and be restful, as now there are no eyes upon you, nor are there any discords to be harsh against your ears. Solitude is very different.

Kyle was neither lonely nor enjoying solitude. His heart would ache as he remembered that his friends and colleagues were out without him, and yet, he would tremble with fear at the thought of having eyes upon him. It was not that he was merely timid, but rather that he had developed social anxiety, and wished to no longer be made a game. He developed poorly, growing too thin and too pale, his curls curling too wildly, and personality becoming too rash and bitter. He grew up being bullied. And so, he grew to become bitter towards peers, yet he did not grow to become loving of solitude.

But then, he was visited by a villainous bird who delivered body parts to him. First, the bird delivered unto him a heart, then an eyeball from the socket, and finally an arm with a note tied to it with barbed wire. While at first he considered them to be the bird's act of accusation and framing, the note had sparked his convincement of a person's involvement. True as true, he had slightly hoped for a companion, even if they were insane. Alas, upon the reality of having read the note, witnessing the loony behavior of its sender, such feelings fled from him, and he was once again anxious of a person's involvement in his life – specifically one whom was mad.

Through the night, Kyle received no sleep, but instead received an aching plethora of shivers, jumps, and paranoia. But, like to most, the sun appeared a savior, and in its luminescent rays, the world seemed brighter, thus, less frightening.

The man readied himself for work, rinsing off the trepidation and dressing for normalcy. He stepped out of his house with the solid intension of going to school and then work, like his average day. However, upon his exiting his chambers and stepping out into the snow-laced town, snow falling from the ground, where it piled to form a cold blanket upon the earth, he spotted something quite horrific.

Across the road, watching him with a madly insane grin upon his oily, bloody face stood a man. He was filthy, his clothes bloodied and stained. Bandages covered half of his face and torso, and his feet were bare and leaving red footsteps in the snow. Intolerably thin and starved-looking, the boy was petite, with hardly any flesh upon his bones. Undoubtedly, this was Kenny McCormick.

Kyle was about to turn back and hurry into his chambers when the bandaged man called out for him, "By gods, you look frightened!"

"Who's to say I'm not?" said Kyle, keeping his back upon him.

"Do I frighten you?" asked he.

"Who's to say you don't?"

"How drab!" said Kenny as he began to amble towards his love, "I came here hoping to see you, and I frighten you? The gods must be angry with me."

Kyle turned to face his admirer as he said, "It's not the gods which wish upon you a dark fate, not even I. Rather, I wish for you to easily leave me be."

"I wish to only know why you wish that," said he.

Kyle pointed a finger towards his bandages and said, "You've injured yourself and then send me your body parts by a raven. One would be a fool not be intimidated by a person like yourself."

"Is that not what lovers do?" asked he, "In all the accounts and novels I've read, one always swoons the other with gifts. I've sent you my heart, a heart being symbolic for love. I've sent you my eye, symbolizing what you are all I see. I've sent you an arm, which holds the hand I've longed for you to hold. I even wrote you a letter professing my love. Is that not what happens? Have my books and my most cherished authors lied to me?"

"They've not lied to you," said Kyle, "They've done what they're paid to do – write stories. Unfortunately, reality and story are different. Where it's possibly acceptable to watch one from afar and send them odd gifts and symbolic messages in stories, it's not that way in reality."

Kenny paused for a moment. He gazed down to his cold feet, and then looked back up. Quietly, he said, "So what is accepted in reality?"

"Knowing one," said he, "Knowing them, and allowing them to know you. There should not be death, instead there should be life. You've provided me with many pieces of yourself, all of which you now hold no possession over. In reality, giving yourself completely to another is strange, it's threatening, and it's something I do not desire. You have learnt of me without my will, without giving me privacy. Where you intended for flattering, you have given me invasion. This, too, is strange, threatening, and something I do not desire."

Again, Kenny looked towards his feet. Without gazing up, he said, "Should I learn the ways of reality and human love?"

"You need mental help," said Kyle as he turned away from his lover and into his chambers, locking the doors, and hiding himself within.

Many months passed, and Kyle had not seen his strange admirer.

However, one day, Kyle chose to seat himself on a bench outside. Snow fell onto the earth for yet another evening, it being a rather long winter. The man set his bag of university textbooks beside him, taking one out and reading a page with intellect. But, before he could indulge himself with the teaching of vicious biology and anatomy, a sleek, black bird swooped down beside him onto the bench, a small envelope within its beak.

He turned towards his newly found company, saying unto it, "If I had a mind to say, I'd say you look familiar." The man took the envelope from the bird, opening it with care and reading its content.

My dearest Kyle,

I have learned of Love and its normalcy. It was awful. Except more parts of which I plan to woo you, my love.

The liveliest of dead men,

Kenny McCormick

He sighed as he folded his letter and stuffed it into his pocket. "I'm prepared," said he, taking his bag of books into his arms as left, and the bird fluttered away back to his master.

As he anticipated what gift he was to receive from his crazed aficionado, he knew that somewhere, somewhere probably very grim and undesirable, a man was cutting a piece of himself from his body. And, maybe one day, he'll know how unnecessary it was, how unpractical it was in his love's eyes. And, maybe one day, Kyle would learn how, really, it was so little trouble, or how much it meant to his admirer.

But, for now, the tale ends suddenly upon the loony Kenny, spouting blood unto everything, a rib from the cage upon his hands, and a gaping hole within his chest. And Kyle, indifferent.

End