These words a nightly habit, clinging to the end of my tongue like rancid, elastic bile. An
addiction may come as naturally as a breath or the food (you so choose) to swallow. But her form eats away at you, your bone marrow, your anaemia evincing as you try to stand. But you seem healthy, look fine, they say. Maybe even glow. At brink of day I lay with gnawing sheets, curled-up limbs, and I wonder: Where does the boundary between a behavior and a diagnosis lie?