#chelsea hodson

[siderains]

he is still the man i remember from younger, happier days — who was my friend — and yet... none of that matters anymore, does it?

(anne magill’s painting - tonight i'm someone else by chelsea hodson, essays. - the script of x-men origins, magneto. - piece made by @spleenflower on twitter - the ideal husband, by oscar wilde - famous blue raincoat by leonard cohen - dante et virgile, 1850, bite, by william-adolphe bouguereau along with the quote from intimacy by hanif kureishi - the script of x-men, days of future and past.)

[lillyli-74]

AI by Lilly Li

Suffering feels religious if you do it right.

~Chelsea Hodson

[evadneares]

Chelsea Hodson, "Tonight I'm Someone Else"

[dirt-goth]

Rose Books, Co. Dialogues #001, Geoff Rickly and Chelsea Hodson, Summer 2023

[imaginemirage]

Suffering feels religious if you do it right.

Chelsea Hodson

[wehavewords]

“I’ve had enemies so intense that it felt romantic, so mutual it felt like love.”

Chelsea Hodson, Tonight I’m Someone Else: Essays

[joshuahowls]

[its-all-down-hill]

[iishtar]

Genre is mainly a marketing ploy and is overrated. Writing is writing, and I think good writing transcends genre. Even with Rose Books, I’m not saying I’m going to publish fiction, or poetry. Whatever good books come my way, I’ll publish. I don’t have that restriction when I read, either.

Chelsea Hodson [x]

[lillyli-74]

Suffering feels religious if you do it right.

~Chelsea Hodson

[stvrlightcosmos]

“i spent so much of my youth waiting for something to happen” chelsea hodson

[adnrewminyard]

imagine being kevin day, son of exy, born and bred to be a cog in the well-oiled machine that is the edgar allan ravens. all you know being the routine of practice and practice and practice and performance and victory alongside those you call brothers.

-and then one day you wake up in your estranged father's apartment between a bottle of painkillers and a bottle of vodka and there is a knot of bandages where your future used to be. you don't wake up at 4am anymore. you sleep until noon and vomit the remainders of life as you knew it into unfamiliar toilets. you watch orange and white clash against each other from sidelines you haven't touched since you started growing facial hair.

your brother doesn't ask you to come home. you would come if he asked. the days are longer here and the food is too rich. the colors are too harsh, the language barrier is too much. you speak and no one understands.

they feel sorry for you, but not for what you have lost, instead for what you have suffered. you try to show them what belonging means, to sever parts of yourself to fit inside a uniform, but they don't understand the necessity of the blade the way your brothers did. they don't understand that suffering feels religious if you do it right.

the therapist tells you it's survivor's guilt but the only survivors you can see are on the court in black and red and they read your eulogy after the game at a press conference. you are not a survivor in any way that matters anymore. how treacherous your heart is for continuing to beat when you can't even hold your lifeline in your hand without dropping it.

you want to go home but your key doesn't open the same door anymore. you want to sit beside your brother but there is no space on his side of the table. you want to be a raven but you are a fox.

you grieve for connection until there is a knife where your neck guard used to sit. you grieve for your life until a boy offers to show you how it feels to survive. you offer to show him how it feels to live. he tells you he won't sever parts of himself to fit the uniform, but there are telltale bloodstains in the fabric from long before you asked.

you wake up at 4am again. you take turns vomiting in the toilet, you when the alcohol level dips too low and him when his smile runs out. he doesn't speak your language but he understands it. he keeps the car running when you visit the therapist. he keeps an eye on your back to watch the 02 on your jersey turn orange. the colors don't seem as harsh anymore.

he offers you safety. he offers you belonging. he offers you the only thing he knows how to give, the only thing you know how to take.

he offers you a lifeline. you pick it up with your right hand.

[valyrfia]

my toxic trait is before i start a writing session i go and reread this one fic that is the most jaw-dropping piece of art ever written but is also for a ship that literally makes me gag

[wehavewords]

“Suffering feels religious if you do it right.”

Chelsea Hodson, Tonight I’m Someone Else: Essays