♱ 𝑳𝒚𝒓𝒊𝒄 ♱

“𝔅𝔲𝔱 𝔟𝔢𝔞𝔲𝔱𝔶, 𝔭𝔬𝔢𝔱𝔯𝔶, 𝔯𝔬𝔪𝔞𝔫𝔠𝔢, 𝔩𝔬𝔳𝔢, 𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔰𝔢 𝔞𝔯𝔢 𝔴𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔴𝔢 𝔰𝔱𝔞𝔶 𝔞𝔩𝔦𝔳𝔢 𝔣𝔬𝔯.” ✧˖°. 🏳️‍⚧️🏳️‍🌈 𝑯𝒆/𝒉𝒊𝒎 🇰🇷🇺🇸 18 y.o. artist and writer

[reusingcels]

Oh Laura Palmer you beautiful soul you

[bl00died-catharsis]

Hey, hey, hey! Where’s the market for queer-coded sexual biblical art??

-

This is an ink drawing of an idea I had for a painting! As a queer person who grew up Christian, the story of Ishmael almost getting sacrificed BY HIS DAD always scared the shit out of me 😭

So this is my spin on Ishmael, enjoy!

[cervus-scribe]

Ｔｈｉｃｋｅｒ Ｔｈａｎ

They used to tell me how menstruation connects you to the women who came before you, stretching back thousands of years, all the way to the days of the Bible and having to bleed with the other women in a tent, unclean but still holy. I am stapled to this legacy by two x chromosomes I didn't ask for. I am drowning and the water tastes like copper and musk. Being a woman has been connected to pain since Genesis and I used to think that was because a man wrote that but maybe they were on to something, maybe they watched enough people die screaming, trading one life for another, or waste away slowly, the blood flowing like a river down someone's shaking legs. I didn't ask to be a woman and I'm afraid to ask for what would make me less of one. I cannot shed the label, because every month something else of mine is shed.  In my mind I am connected to the strange ones. The inbetween. The ones who were holy, connected to their gods in ritual, in prayer, in war. The ones born of the moon, the ones that men who thought they knew better could never truly wipe out. The ones who survived through words and stories and songs. The ones pathologized. The ones told to decide between two tightening nooses or else they would be tied to their genitals forever, the ones wondering if it was worth that to just not bleed anymore. The ones electrocuted and force fed vitamins, the ones who had their lives unrelentingly picked through like a puzzle meant to be solved when they are the answer. The ones who's parents will never understand. I am connected to the children crying in the bathroom as they wonder why they couldn't float in the space inbetween forever. The ones hiding their pads in boxer shorts. The ones called unholy, sinners, fools. The ones told they are going through a phase. The ones told to decide, because the blood coming out of them has decided for them. I am blood. I am water. I am inbetween and interwoven and alive. 

This poem is about menstruation while being transmasc.

This poem was inspired by all the things I was told when I got my period when I was 11. It is inspired by all the things I've been told about it since, from men and women and everyone inbetween and both. It is about me, but it might be about you too. If it is, I am glad to be connected, even if it's through shared pain.

[bl00died-catharsis]

Achromatic Queerness

It wasn’t because I was ashamed.

But the burst of color, stark against my jacket, felt

inappropriate.

Not for what it represented,

but because I felt it could not represent it.

The fullness of the Queer experience, wrapped up in

six colors—incomplete.

Is there a symbol?

That can capture

the pain,

and the joy,

the suddenness,

and the lingering,

the death and

rebirth,

that is Queerness?

In my redesign,

I draw worn black jeans in a Berlin flea market,

Your head on my shoulder,

A needle on my desk.

Swirling shapes

like untamable fire

in the wind,

dancing,

flickering,

alive and awake in all that it is,

Confined to a 1x1 circle

On the lapel of my jacket.

(Photo and poem by me!)

[bl00died-catharsis]

All I Need

White noise,

and sea salt,

and wind.

The lighthouse is empty without you,

and it is useless without the ships it was built to save.

—

Race me,

race me down the winding stairs,

chase me so deep into the earth that we can feel

the heat of its core on our feet.

I want you on my heels, I want to hear your laughter three steps away,

closeness, God knows I crave it.

When I look behind me you are gone.

When I look in front of me, the ships are still not coming.

(Poem I wrote based on the Radiohead song of the same name, photo is mine too!)

[bl00died-catharsis]

I actually love drawing in pen, like oh well I fucked up time to not worry about it and move on 🖤

[bl00died-catharsis]

Teenage Transfaggotry

His homework is killing him

and the government is killing him,

but resurrection comes in the form of punk rock melodies and masturbation.

He has cross hatched over the stretch of the universe that is safe to piss in,

and scumbled over the face of an ex-lover.

The adderall did not work, so god bless

the angel that highlighted the answers

in this shitty online textbook.

In the hallways, music is his only protector.

He wears headphones like armor because

Cobain screams loud enough to drown

what the blond boys say.

Hungry all the time,

and sad for no reason,

He’s no longer looking for the truth, but a good distraction.

He can’t sit down or he won’t get back up.

Don’t sit down or you won’t get back up.

Don’t end the call yet, you have to say, “I love you”.

(An older poem of mine, and I picture I took in NYC 🖤)

[ayesopod]

something terrible. echoes of past intrusions. barely discernible

[bl00died-catharsis]

Figure studies!!

I’ve been adding these little star explosion shapes all over my art lately, they’re so fun ✨

[bl00died-catharsis]

I write an AP Lit essay while ICE raids the Asian grocery store

I can walk the length of the room with my eyes shut.

Fingertips skim aisle four,

bullets graze my skin but never touch bone.

I read the words on the package,

points marked off for syntax,

I default

back

Press tab to finish my sentence

And my father shakes his head,

holding up his passport like a cross in front of me,

In front of us,

like our legality is holy

Like an American God.

(Poem and Photo by me 🖤)

[bl00died-catharsis]

Some hand gesture drawings! (Because we all need to practice hands 🥲) I’ve been really fuckin with the little stars lately I draw them around all my sketches 🖤

[bl00died-catharsis]

Flower Boy

On the island I am a flower boy.

My hair is long and the days never end.

I bite into nectarines, and their sweetness soaks my skin– and God,

does it feel good

to be something holy again,

on the island where you were never tainted by man.

On the island I dance in the dark.

In the fire, the flames cast their glow on my body.

I am beautiful and I am held, and we fuck underneath the stars– and God,

I was named right the first time,

and there was never a skin I had to shed,

never a shell I had to break through,

never a part of me

I had to leave behind.

(Photo and poem by me 🖤)

[bl00died-catharsis]

Homoerotic religious imagery

I walk the land that sleeps under the Red Sea,

with a faith that god will deliver me

to the promised land

in your arms

or eyes.

He is

a believer,

but only in the darkness— in the slick,

infinite space between our bodies.

The warmth in your mouth,

your breath of my breath,

your heart on my heart:

Holy in a way scripture begs to be.

Home in a way the church never was.

(Photo and poem by yours truly 🖤)

[111dollboy]

“ death before detransition “