The Morbid and the Divine is a collection of literature created by two people, “The Morbid” who writes the literature and “The Divine” who inspires and illustrates this literature. “The Morbid” is in fact better known as CornerWitch and “The Divine” is better known as Alice. In this literature collection, we refer to ourselves as The Morbid and the Divine solely due to the creative contrast we have. CornerWitch always writes and thinks up things in her morbid and dystopian sense of the world, while Alice always inspires others to have a divine and benevolent perspective. When we say Morbid we don’t only mean the dead and the decaying, rather “Morbid” to us is a fantasized sense of death, afterlife, witchcraft and all the fancy-scary concepts out there. Likewise, when we say “Divine” we don’t just mean the blessed ones up above… or down below, not taking responsibility for where the blessed ones are, we don’t know either. Anyhow, “Divine” to us is the ability to love quite unconditionally, the self-satisfaction in benevolent actions and the somewhat frivolous and giddy emotions that drive humans to be kind. The distinctive aspect of these pieces of literature is that our respective aforesaid characteristics might not be prominently observed in our personalities by others, but that is how we see each other. Cornerwitch sees Alice as the “Divine” and Alice sees CornerWitch as “The Morbid”. This unique reality we have made for each other has made it possible for us to create the following pieces of literature. We sincerely hope you feel the same thrills we feel, while you read them.
They’re suffocating my unicorn!
It’s dying, you see. I wish
I hadn’t slept in. Then maybe
I would’ve had time
to talk to the dandelions dancing
with white daisies before
rushing to catch a bus I was
bound to miss either way.
But I was so tired. I wish
I’d gone to sleep early, but I
had so much to do.
And I wasn’t thinking
about riding unicorns, I swear
I was trying to find
the accessible entrances to
the mall and the shortest way
to the elevator, so that
I could make it to work
on time and feel like I
achieved something for once.
Can I say I love you without
it seeming like I want to
have sex with you?
I’m not trying to get in
your pants, I swear. Or your skirt,
or your lungi, or lehenga.
Can I say I love you without
them hearing wedding
bells and babies, without
the ground beneath us
heaving and hurling rosy poems?
And if the ground does shift when I
say I love you, can we keep these
tectonic shifts platonic?
Chasing a feeling I used to know.
A shuddering balloon, ripped,
gasping for air, skin
stuck in my nails.
Chasing waves, wishing
they’d stay in place, loving
the water’s sway, the sounds
lulling me to days bygone.
Chasing the days I want.
Romanticising reality, love
a strange monster, reflected
in the mirrors I pass by.
Feelings painted on skin,
faint lines tracing memories.
Memories I chase into a dead tomorrow.
Teacups, newspapers, pictures on the wall, nailed
I measure life through conversations hushed,
Shall I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Drift away, waterfalls of hair and laces?
But what of the others living in me
Can I listen to one and ignore the rest
When they are all me and I am them all
No. I will drown in all my voices
And float up, a creature reborn.
Someday I’ll make the onions cry
But for now, I’ll just hide
between my layers, scratching away
at the cellophane that separates me from them.
I don’t even like onions. It’s nothing like love.
But I guess it’s like lovers, flavours extracted
through tears, and a stink that latches on
forever. She says I should love more. But
I hate onions. I hate that ghastly crunch and that stink
as loud as the sirens in my head. Some endangered
mythical creature with a sandpaper throat. I only want
to be left alone. And onions are attention-seekers.
They crave it so much they need clinical attention.
I like to stay invisible. Because they can’t hurt you
if they don’t know you exist. But I do exist. And that hurts.
Denying my existence only adds to the exhaustion of existence.
Eventually, I don’t even have to try. I’m invisible by default.
Stuck between stinky layers, with burning eyes begging
for rest. Because everything makes me cry. Especially onions.
– of –
I wish you kinder seas. Soft winds to tussle your hair, the way I would if I could. May the leaves land soft pats of affection. I hope you let your tears flow freely. Feel them all, my dear. All these feelings are what makes you. I hope they listen when you speak, I hope they come when you call, I hope they make space for you in their hearts. I am but a withery human, barely hanging on. So, I hope the world loves you in my place. I hope they love all that you are. I wish you comfy seats for this bumpy ride and I wish you a soft exit into a sweet neverafter.
– of –
I wish you kinder seas. Soft winds to tussle your hair, the way I would if I could. May the leaves land soft pats of affection. I hope you let your tears flow freely. Feel them all, my dear. All these feelings are what makes you. I hope they listen when you speak, I hope they come when you call, I hope they make space for you in their hearts. I am but a withery human, barely hanging on. So, I hope the world loves you in my place. I hope they love all that you are. I wish you comfy seats for this bumpy ride and I wish you a soft exit into a sweet neverafter.
The river that I am, the ocean I will be.
Pieces of me, stitched together
like a failed science experiment.
Or a successful one, I don’t know.
He was not a lover, or a fighter,
just a slacker.
She is a lover, a fragrant deity,
guiding the little streams.
They form me. They break me.
Sticks and stones will break my bones,
And words be stuck like wool on velcro.
Evenings spent trying to separate
them from me.
I’m tired, so tired.
And yet I flow through
bubbly valleys and grim mountains.
Am I a lover? Or a fighter?
Maybe just an exister,
slowly gathering all my pieces.
Some unwanted too.
Branches joining together.
I am a tree. A wee sapling with dreams.
I will be the ocean. Drowning and encompassing.
The river that I am, the ocean I will be.
Pieces of me, stitched together
like a failed science experiment.
Or a successful one, I don’t know.
He was not a lover, or a fighter,
just a slacker.
She is a lover, a fragrant deity,
guiding the little streams.
They form me. They break me.
Sticks and stones will break my bones,
And words be stuck like wool on velcro.
Evenings spent trying to separate
them from me.
I’m tired, so tired.
And yet I flow through
bubbly valleys and grim mountains.
Am I a lover? Or a fighter?
Maybe just an exister,
slowly gathering all my pieces.
Some unwanted too.
Branches joining together.
I am a tree. A wee sapling with dreams.
I will be the ocean. Drowning and encompassing.
The river that I am, the ocean I will be.
Pieces of me, stitched together
like a failed science experiment.
Or a successful one, I don’t know.
He was not a lover, or a fighter,
just a slacker.
She is a lover, a fragrant deity,
guiding the little streams.
They form me. They break me.
Sticks and stones will break my bones,
And words be stuck like wool on velcro.
Evenings spent trying to separate
them from me.
I’m tired, so tired.
And yet I flow through
bubbly valleys and grim mountains.
Am I a lover? Or a fighter?
Maybe just an exister,
slowly gathering all my pieces.
Some unwanted too.
Branches joining together.
I am a tree. A wee sapling with dreams.
I will be the ocean. Drowning and encompassing.
Oh, the desire to burst into flames, ashes blown to the wind. Stain the world’s faces with tears of grey. Burn them all with the rage I was supposed to keep to myself, the passion too big for my withery body. A self-destructive arsonist, loose in the wind. If not me, at least they’ll listen to the sirens. Listen to the screeching electricity, ignore the pleading breaths. Strung up and stretched too thin. An empty cup pouring rivers of love into a world that doubts kindness. Can my fires warm those freezing hands? Or am I still a spectacle to be beheld, a disaster to be avoided?