LITERARY | Deny It Yourself (D.I.Y.)

You picked up a piece of paper dropped on the floor.

Despite its stillness, it seems remembered.

Unforgotten.

As if someone is looking for it.

Someone will still need it.

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𝗗𝗙𝗬: 𝗗𝗔𝗨𝗚𝗛𝗧𝗘𝗥 𝗙𝗢𝗥 𝗬𝗢𝗨 (𝗔 𝗠𝗮𝗻𝘂𝗮𝗹)

Have a daughter, they say.

Have a daughter with a voice so thin, straight-line hair, and skin as pale as the clouds so that you can cut her up like paper.

𝙃𝙚𝙧𝙚’𝙨 𝙖 𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙥-𝙗𝙮-𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙥 𝙥𝙧𝙤𝙘𝙚𝙨𝙨 𝙤𝙣 𝙝𝙤𝙬 𝙤𝙣𝙚 𝙘𝙖𝙣 𝙨𝙪𝙘𝙘𝙚𝙨𝙨𝙛𝙪𝙡𝙡𝙮 𝙖𝙘𝙝𝙞𝙚𝙫𝙚 𝙢𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙖𝙡 𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙗𝙞𝙡𝙞𝙩𝙮:

→ First, have a child, cut pieces of her mind to suit your taste, mold her heart in a way that will serve yours, and craft her character to be as reliable as wood—so her delicate hands will hold all the splinters for you.

→ Afterwards, glue her mouth together so she’ll never learn how to speak, and just like her lips, you will never be apart.

→ Following these steps, carve out a swan-like infant from cardboard into existence, so you will have someone who can gracefully swallow all the scrap papers you crumpled. So she can passionately dance in your lake of tears with a silent song and trembling legs.

→ The fourth step will require some patience, but it will be worth it. Test her resilience with wounds and see how much she can hold for you. When she refuses, wring her until she sweats, and threaten to take away the love and home you gave. This is to ensure you’re sculpting a daughter who can take all of your blows unearthed.

→ 𝗡𝗼𝘁𝗲 𝗮𝗯𝗼𝘂𝘁 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗾𝘂𝗮𝗹𝗶𝘁𝘆 𝗼𝗳 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗺𝗮𝘁𝗲𝗿𝗶𝗮𝗹 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝘀𝗵𝗼𝘂𝗹𝗱 𝗹𝗼𝗼𝗸 𝗳𝗼𝗿: a daughter so pure, so innocent and carefree that you can have an organizer to put all of your failed pieces in.

→ Having met all these,

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You cannot read the end of the manual anymore.

It was torn.

But another piece of crumpled paper with handwriting is slipped inside the manual like a response.

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𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘮𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘱𝘪𝘦𝘤𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘻𝘦𝘴 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘴 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘦𝘯𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩, 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘭𝘦𝘧𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘺𝘰𝘶?

𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘤𝘶𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘤𝘶𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘤𝘳𝘢𝘺𝘰𝘯𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘱𝘢𝘪𝘯?

𝘞𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩, 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘣𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘮𝘱𝘵𝘺 𝘤𝘢𝘯𝘷𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶’𝘥 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘬 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘤𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘢𝘳𝘵?

𝘔𝘢𝘺𝘣𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶, 𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘭 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘵𝘩 𝘪𝘴𝘯'𝘵 𝘢 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘢𝘯'𝘵 𝘥𝘦𝘯𝘺 𝘪𝘵𝘴 𝘦𝘹𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘐 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘪𝘵'𝘴 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦. 𝘔𝘢𝘺𝘣𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘪𝘴𝘴𝘶𝘦𝘴 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘪𝘵 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘰𝘱𝘪𝘯𝘨—𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘮𝘢𝘺𝘣𝘦 𝘪𝘵'𝘴 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘐 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘯𝘦𝘢𝘳.

𝘐𝘧 𝘐 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬 𝘰𝘧 𝘪𝘵, 𝘮𝘢𝘺𝘣𝘦 𝘐 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥'𝘷𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘺𝘦𝘥 𝘴𝘢𝘯𝘦 𝘪𝘧 𝘐 𝘸𝘢𝘴𝘯'𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘰𝘶𝘵𝘭𝘦𝘵.

𝘐𝘧 𝘐 𝘸𝘢𝘴𝘯’𝘵 𝘢𝘴𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘴𝘱𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘴 𝘐𝘧 𝘐 𝘥𝘪𝘥𝘯’𝘵 𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘮𝘺 𝘴𝘬𝘪𝘯.

𝘗𝘦𝘳𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘢 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘸𝘩𝘺 𝘐 𝘸𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘮𝘺 𝘵𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘣𝘭𝘦𝘴 𝘰𝘯 𝘮𝘺 𝘸𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘵 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘢 𝘣𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘦𝘭𝘦𝘵; 𝘢 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘯'𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘵𝘢𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘮𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘣𝘦𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘐 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘢𝘭𝘱𝘩𝘢𝘣𝘦𝘵.

𝘋𝘰 𝘐 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘢𝘱𝘦𝘳 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘬𝘦𝘦𝘱 𝘤𝘶𝘵𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨?

𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘮𝘢𝘥𝘦 𝘮𝘦 𝘪𝘯𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 aggression, 𝘴𝘰-𝘤𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘷𝘪𝘵𝘺, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘸𝘩𝘺 𝘐 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘢𝘯 𝘶𝘯𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘪𝘴𝘩𝘦𝘥 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘬, 𝘢 𝘤𝘳𝘶𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘱𝘢𝘱𝘦𝘳, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘢 𝘧𝘳𝘢𝘨𝘪𝘭𝘦 𝘴𝘤𝘶𝘭𝘱𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘦.

𝘖𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘵𝘳𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘥𝘢𝘺𝘴, 𝘐 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘣𝘺 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦. 𝘖𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘮𝘦𝘵 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘴𝘭𝘢𝘮𝘮𝘦𝘥 𝘥𝘰𝘰𝘳𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘱 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘐 𝘬𝘦𝘱𝘵 𝘧𝘢𝘤𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘴𝘰𝘧𝘵 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘤𝘬𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘭𝘦𝘨𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘢𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘮𝘦.

𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘮𝘦 𝘢 𝘴𝘸𝘢𝘯, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘮𝘺 𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘨𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘴𝘰 𝘐 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘬𝘪𝘦𝘴, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘴𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘵 𝘢 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳 𝘰𝘯 𝘮𝘺 𝘧𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴, 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘧𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘶𝘳𝘺 𝘮𝘺 𝘣𝘳𝘶𝘪𝘴𝘦𝘴 𝘪𝘯?

𝙒𝙞𝙩𝙝𝙤𝙪𝙩 𝙢𝙚, 𝙬𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙬𝙤𝙪𝙡𝙙 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙗𝙚?

𝙔𝙤𝙪 𝙬𝙖𝙣𝙩𝙚𝙙 𝙩𝙤 𝙘𝙤𝙥𝙚.

𝙎𝙤 𝙙𝙤 𝙞𝙩 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧𝙨𝙚𝙡𝙛.

𝘽𝙪𝙩 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙣𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧 𝙬𝙖𝙣𝙩𝙚𝙙 𝙞𝙩 𝙩𝙤 𝙨𝙝𝙤𝙬.

𝙏𝙝𝙚𝙣 𝙙𝙚𝙣𝙮 𝙞𝙩 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧𝙨𝙚𝙡𝙛.