I
hope someone loves me enough to cut off my head. It doesn’t have to
be a close friend or family. It could be the mailman. It could be the
person who sits two rows behind me on the bus. It could be you. All
you would need is an ax or a machete or a butter knife. I see you
sawing, hands moving back and forth and I feel the heat of my blood
plopping down my chest. I feel alive. Then I feel the life running
away from me like I’m threatening to destroy it, like it’s afraid
of me. And the only thing I would ask in return is that just before
my head detaches into your curled fingers, you tell me that you love
me so much that you’re cutting off my head so you can carry it
everywhere you go and look at my face whenever you want.
Andrew J. Stone
Edie
& the Low-Hung Hands
Brian
Allen Carr