Sacred Mountain

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.