Is there at least one small part of your heart that still belongs to me? Is there a part of you that mourns over my leaving? I know it would be sick to be happy over something like that but I would be lying if I said the idea doesn't thrill me like a dip in a roller coaster.
It kills my brain cells. You always ask why I'm such an asshat, a wanker, a mindless bloke. It's because of you. Because every time I seen the pastures of your eyes and the grain of your hair my thoughts cannot process anything but how much I want you. It kills my thoughts- the thought of you wanting to be held by anyone but me. It's a burn in my chest, you are an invisible brand over my heart that cannot be washed away.
England. That is the name that has more power over me than any other. It is you, you little island that brought me to where I stand today. It is no coincidence that I answer your calls for help- even the silent ones you think I never see.
The other countries want me to call you The United Kingdom, that simply calling you 'England' is too informal, too personal. But, God, how I want that right ti call you something so close, so intimate. The reason I hate calling you 'United Kingdom' is because that name doesn't mean only you. It means Ireland, Scotland, and Wales too. I mean no unkindness to them but I don't care about them like I do you. Because if I were to say 'I love the United Kingdom' that means I love your brothers as well. That would be a lie. And even though I talk so much I speak mindless words to make up for my lack of the most important words. And if I said them to anyone but you, my island, they would be a lying, stinging sin.
I love you, England.