The Thing With Teeth

At first it was a guest. Showed up uninvited but charming— the kind of guest who makes the room feel warmer, who turns the music up and convinces you that tonight is the only night that matters. I let it stay. Why wouldn't I? It made the pain smaller. It made the noise quieter. It made the version of me in the mirror someone I could almost stand. But guests leave. This didn't. It moved in. Slowly. First the spare room. Then the kitchen. Then the bedroom. Then every room. Until I realized I was the guest in my own house and it was in every lock. It took the morning first. Then the afternoon. Then the evening. Then the night became its property and I paid rent with everything I had— my health, my people, my ability to remember the version of me who existed before this thing moved in. The worst part isn't the wanting. The worst part is the math: I know what it costs. I know exactly what it takes from me. And I reach for it anyway because the part of my brain that knows better lost the vote a long time ago. Recovery is not a moment. It's a direction. It's waking up and choosing the harder thing and choosing it again and some days the only victory you get is that you chose. And that's enough. It has to be enough. Because the thing with teeth doesn't die. It just learns to sleep. And every day I don't wake it up is a day I win. And I am winning. Slowly. Badly. Beautifully.