dressing the issue

Greg,
    I wish i could forget that name.
Bitter, wretched, my skull creaks when you are shouted for, but I can't crane my neck while his hands stroke my face.
    Damn, your best friend, baby what was I thinking? And you, I can't imagine that fine process inside your head.

   I have never known how to phrase it, other than this:
   Sorry.

   So lately I've been dying on my feet, thinking up new things to say and do that will crucify my dignity right in your face. What a fool you must think of me honey, what a fool. The idiot foetus is well fed, growing, protruding almost with a purpose.

  Stuck already, on your fancies that I could never imagine, and only fear:-
 Her? Or her? I was worse, uglier,....always the least worthy in your company. Maybe not, even, but then I became it. I can mould to fit inside the worry, what a talented little girl, hey darling?
  Yknow, I can't even cry. Sometimes I bleed for it, need it so... but honey I can't cry. Fucking talents? Here's 10 in 1: I disappear each time you almost look at me. You can see right through where I should be. Hell, I'm almost quoting here, but I'm so invisible that you'll never see more than decorations. Clothes, shoes, wrong answers in every class and every respect.... but not a face.

   I've never known where to end it. How to end it. You're too wrapped up in yourself (well, that makes two of us) to even stab at advice, so I'll close with this:
   Nothing with him has even scraped the skin of what we became. Those few hours. Nothing could, and (well, with all that wit and understated intellect, you knew the end right from the start)...
Still,

     I love you.

Yours,
(and here's a name I wish you could remember: )

     Tammy.