the cosmonaut complex and obscure symbolism in the isolation of the depressed

the faggot in the reflection of my space helmet visor is my only friend.

with shaggy shorn hair and big eyes and a hollow cheek bone that holds in my silent tongue.

i have etched lessons in my skin, leaving silver lines

not unlike the cosmos, never ending and deep.

i try to communicate with the humans, they can't see past the tinted gold shield

i stand out so much with my bulky white suit, but it's only a shell

holding my sad insides in

but sometimes i wish they'd spill out.

The red dwarf stars really dont compare to what my skin holds in.

I've never really recovered.

Remnants of you still cling close. like stars that once collided always do.

but like the stars that collide, your fragments make me up, 

and i cant tell if i'm me or only a memory of us.

i must be a memory,

because i'm certainly not living.

sometimes i think if i took off my helmet, i'd be ok again.

but then i remember that's what you did, and you never woke back up again.

i'll visit you in person, today. i think.

 

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