Your hair had the colour of flacked almounds. You, underweight - seven - stong - something. It came out in strands that got caught in the back of my throat. I found sits of it in my sheets for days afterwards, and it was a reminder I didn't want at all. Someone had a photograph of you - all eyeliner and nail - polish and rainbow - coloured bracelets circling your skinny arms. When the kissing stopped, little shining strings of spit linked your mouth to mine. Your hip bones and rid-cage juited through your skin and dug into me. You bored me. It was only your prettiness and the steady stream of oddly-coloured cocktails that made me think it would be worth risking things for. The shouting started immediatly : My father saying I was a slut ; my boyfriend saying it was all over.
You didn't even phone me afterwards.