Your hair had the colour of flaked almonds. 
You, underweight: seven stone something. 
It came out in strands that got caught in the back of my throat. 
I found bits 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 jutted 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 immediately: my father saying I was a slut; my boyfriend saying it was all over.
You didn't even phone me afterwards.