(And, as it turns out, a continuation of yesterday's drabble)
The outside of my lip sewn up into a neat line, but the inside has been ripped apart so deeply that the stitches can barely hold it together. Dead skin peels away from the threads, fills my mouth with a permanent acrid, rotten taste as it withers and breaks away. The humidity of my mouth shrinks the fibers, pulls them tighter so that each attempt to open my mouth is more painful than the last. I have to persuade the doctor to take them out early - my mouth may not be ready yet, but I can’t live like this.