English

The English Language is my shelter.

It is what I clung to once I realised I was thorned into shreds, about the same time I was expected to choose a path in life.

Thus, I studied English.

English is my medicine.

It is what I take to heal my wounds.

I talk to it as a permanent companion to ease my mind, to fill the too silent void.

So, somehow it gracefully fed me bitter portions of self-respect.

Then, I had to find a vocation. She found me one.

It is my passion even if sometimes I fear the loss of my identity in its countenance.

Things change.

So, at my decay, I expected you to leave. You did not.

I stress about all matters evaluated.

So, once I made you one. It felt like putting what I had so precious at jeopardy.

But, now, I know we will be fine.

After all, I think I kept you independent of all variables, much to my surprise.

Whatever happens, you will be my shelter, my medicine and my passion.

I unconsciously smile when I unexpectedly hear you. I have known you for twelve years now, and I still catch myself bewildered at your beauty.

You can be bad. I might speak of you so sweetly, but not in any way are you perfect.

Still, you are English, my lovely English language.