The Pocket-Lint Psychologist (no. 6)

Seventy-five candles burning on a throne of lies. A practiced little smile. A kingdom built on alibis. Gold behind the curtains. Secrets underneath the floor. Diagnosis recorded. Please remain seated. Diagnosed by whom? Show me the white coat. Show me the degree. Welcome to the family. She turned a lifetime into numbers on a page, then called the one who questioned her the enemy of the age. She painted over memories, polished every scar. But every coat of paint just shows us where you are. There was a man behind the curtain, fading day by day. Still they placed the pen between his fingers and told him what to say. The numbers kept on moving. The signatures appeared. The older he became, the less his voice was heard. And underneath the perfect prose a question kept breathing: Who is this paperwork for? OH, QUEEN OF THE FACADE! DANCING WHILE THE CEILING CRACKS! BUILDING CASTLES OUT OF PAPER WITH A THOUSAND STRINGS ATTACHED! YOU CAN BURY EVERY LEDGER! YOU CAN LOCK AWAY THE PAST! BUT THE TRUTH HAS GOT A HEARTBEAT— AND IT’S BEATING THROUGH THE GLASS! THE WAR IS OVER— BUT THE APPARATUS BLINKS! At Christmas they served pork. Parsley on the side. Apple cake waiting. Sweet little lie. Everyone smiled for the photograph. Everyone knew where they were supposed to stand. Underneath the table something small was watching. A little meerkat. Sharp little eyes. Please remain seated. Why? Because this is how families work. No. This is how furniture works. I was never furniture. The heart accelerates. The pupils widen. The body knows before the mind can speak. Something is wrong. Something has been here for twenty years. The alarm doesn't ask whether the danger is real. It asks: Can you survive it? Third-party narrative detected. Is it true? It is documented. Who wrote it? Authorized personnel. Who authorized them? The system. Who authorized the system? Please remain seated. Oh, fuck off. Some women inherit jewellery. Some inherit houses. Some inherit silence. And some inherit a story about who they are. A story repeated until everyone forgets who wrote it. The grandmother hears it. The brother hears it. The doctor hears it. The daughter hears it. And finally— the body hears it too. Not because she is broken. Because something inside her has been paying attention. The papers have a voice. The walls have a memory. The stones remember. The garden remembers. The body remembers. The book remembers. Take the book. Take the name. Take the story back. SEVENTY-FIVE CANDLES! WHITE COAT! BLACK INK! FRIED PORK! APPLE CAKE! SWEET LITTLE LIE! PRUNING SHEARS! STONE WALL! MEERKATS! ARCHIVE! LEDGER! HEARTBEAT! ALARM! BURN THE SCRIPT! OPEN THE GARDEN! NO MORE ROLES! NO MORE BORROWED NAMES! OH, QUEEN OF THE FACADE! HEAR THE THUNDER IN THE WALLS! EVERY SECRET HAS A SHADOW! EVERY EMPIRE HAS A FALL! YOU CAN POLISH UP THE SURFACE! YOU CAN SWEAR THE STORY’S TRUE! BUT THE CRACKS ARE GETTING WIDER— AND THEY’RE POINTING BACK TO YOU! I’M A MEERKAT! STANDING TALL! I’M A MEERKAT! I SEE IT ALL! I DON’T STAY SMALL! I DON’T CRAWL! The candles have burned down. The velvet is empty. The throne is cold. The garden is growing through the stones. The alarm is listening. No danger detected. No permission necessary. The war is over. You may stand down. You are your own home. And the observation tower... is dead.