#artist reproduction

[suddenly-frankenstein]

chastity for a vampire

[mccolejess]

[mail-me-a-snail]

Hey if requests are still open,,, blu demo?

my first time drawing demo n i had so so much fun.... i don't think he rlly gives a hoot about his missing eye and he'll go around blu base without his eyepatch often. i entertained the idea of him going for a glass eye but yeahh blu demo doesnt really......care about much, so to say. that's the #depression that comes with being a clone

[soshrimped]

2025

[lady-lamb21]

My Body, My Period

a messy, personal essay from a messy English major in her senior year.

hopefully another woman reading this knows what I'm talking about

<3

CW: mentions of body dysmorphia, religion, menstruation/bleeding, and SA

—

When I was a child, I sleepwalked out of bed to the landing at the top of our stairs in the middle of the night. My dad was at the bottom, likely having gotten up for a midnight snack because people who go to bed at 7 pm are undoubtedly going to bed hungry. He looked up at me, perplexed, and asked what I was doing, and like a suicidal bird with a broken wing, I stretched my arms out wide and fell forwards, leaping to a weird, unprompted death. My dad caught me, as is apparent by my ability to be alive and writing this, and when I think back on it now, I don't think about how lucky I was that my dad was there to catch me. I think, instead, “I wish I were still light enough to be caught.”

I write about things that matter to me—things with an importance to me that I hate to admit out loud—when I'm on my period. My period makes me think about what I believe in, and how nothing it all feels. I want to believe in witchcraft, but not in the way that other white girls you meet at house shows believe in it. I want a coven of women, all taller than I, with wild hair and long, yellowish nails, that will comb my hair back as I expel whatever concoction they’ve brewed for me to make me fall out of love with my best guy friend. I want to sit in a circle with them around candles that don’t smell like anything but dust and fire, and cut each other's hands, kissing the cuts and wearing our newly red lips as badges of pride in our sisterhood. But I don’t believe in any of that. It’s only a fantasy that stems from my love for women who look beautiful even when big. I don’t believe in god most of the time, and actively roll my eyes whenever I stumble across an earnest millennial proudly displaying their pastel portrait of a weeping jesus on the internet (“everybody hates my christian art”), as if i wasn’t going to bed in 2012 praying to a higher power that I always pictured wearing a blue button up shirt that I would get a solo in Holly And The Ivy in the christmas eve service. I don't believe in god until I think about the death of my mother and one day never seeing her again, and then suddenly everything shifts. I imagine the man in the button up shirt standing in a wide open field. It's 70 degrees and sunny with plenty of pockets of shade and my first dog Maggie, who died of a tumor, runs circles around my second dog Ollie, who lived a long happy life. My mother is there with the body she had in her 20s and hair down to her ankles and she’s sketching portraits of my brother and I as babies like she loved to do. That heaven is something to be earned, and I have no doubt in my mind that my mother will have paid her dues, ever the good episcopalian, but I lie awake at night fearful that I will not be so lucky—I have not feared god more than the scale, and therefore I will be fated for some forever darkness, lost in a space in which I slowly forget my mother’s voice but never forget the number, up to the decimal.

The scale is the greatest equalizer. It tells me all my justifications were nothing but—that I didn't truly deserve fast food just because I woke up bleeding. I didn't truly deserve to sit on my bed all day and watch other people watch movies I like on YouTube until the sun went down just because I woke up in pain. Periods are the third strongest things in the world, second only to the uteruses that shed for them, those of which are second only to the brains and hearts attached to those uteruses that decide every day not to kill themselves, to end the pain and suffering. 

I once got in an argument with a Lyft driver about periods, which I think he thought was flirting which was weird because he had a girlfriend and it was an argument about periods. He told me women are insane on their periods, that he grew up with sisters and knows better than to “mess” with a woman on the rag. I asked him if he’d ever woken up, looked in the mirror and not recognized his reflection. If he’d ever stared into the face of something horrible and ugly and massive. If he’d ever felt like his intestines were being scrambled by two chainsaws, like a hellish salad. If he’d ever sat down on a plush chair and experienced a sensation akin to shoving a large ice pick up his rectum. If he’d ever spent a week convinced that everyone who loves him absolutely despised him, and he didn’t know why but he did know that it was all his fault. If he wept for a grief he’d sworn had already long been dealt with. He technically didn’t answer, but he laughed, short, sharp and very loudly, so in a way he did. 

My body is about men. As I get older, I fight tooth and nail to make it about women, so maybe someday it won’t be about anything at all. I think about men when I fall asleep. My AC is on full blast, and I shiver under the covers. I think about my body, and how maybe men would like it that I get cold. I didn’t used to get cold, or maybe I did but I can't remember it. When I was at my biggest, everything was hot and tight and itchy and uncomfortable. I would've given anything to shiver and huddle close to another person's body fat. I was the space heater to huddle close to. I was the friend to ask for advice. I was a fat girl in a movie. Fat girls in movies are only beautiful when men don’t want to be rude. My first boyfriend was skinny as a rail, and he would huddle close to me. Now in our 20s, he’s even skinnier. His partner looks like a Pinterest page, and he’s so happy, and I’m happy for him. But my body still revolves around him. My body revolves around my dad complimenting my face and how it’s slimmer than it was. It revolves around male professors reading my writing and a guy on the bus across from me. It revolves around men I love, men I’m indifferent to, and men I want nothing to do with. My body is mine like a punishment is mine—given to me by another out of spiteful justice. 

My body and my period are one and the same at the gynecologist. My gynecologist is a man, which stuns all my friends, but makes sense to me for some reason. He’s older and doesn’t care about anything that creepy older men care about, so I only panic for a moment when he puts two fingers inside of me. When he removed my old IUD, we chatted about my major and if I had any internships lined up for the summer yet. When I told him I wanted to get off the pill, he told me I shouldn’t be taking anything I didn’t like, and I pretended to agree. Right after the election, I was more afraid of rape than I’d ever been in my life, not for the torture of it, but for the aftermath. I want to be a mom, I want to be a single mom, but I want it to be planned. I want to be 35, with a sperm donor and a circus nursery I paint with my best friend. I want to watch my baby grow, and fill a notebook with all the things I wish my parents had done differently, so when the time comes, I know how to do them. When he inserted my new IUD, my 2025 administration IUD, it hurt more than anything I'd ever felt. It felt like rape. He was so apologetic, and the female nurse was so apologetic and held my hand gently and stroked the back of it with her thumb. My body is mine like a punishment is mine. I prepare it for a fate I work tirelessly to avoid. 

When I go to sleep tonight, I'll feel the way my pelvis aches and my menstrual underwear expands with blood. The IUD makes me bleed more, makes my muscles ache more. I’ll feel everything wrong with my body—the way my stomach pours out onto the bed on my side, the way my thighs touch even though they have to. I'll feel the way I would feel to a man and I’ll remember to shiver. I'll tell myself, so as to finally fall asleep, that it will all feel smaller in the morning, and in my mind, I spread my arms out wide and fall forwards, leaping to a weird, unprompted dream.

[boselliart]

[trilliumtriffid]

Some excellent examples of democratic states that **actually** get along with one another.

[thesunxlx]

Click for better quality - please do not save or repost

One of my goals for 2025 is to make more political art. I feel like this is the least I can do to help: inspiring and pushing people to stay strong, take action, be in the streets, organize and care for their communities. For all the people in the US who support me, I’m with you and stand in solidarity - regretfully we too have elected the furthest right European Parliament in history, it’s not looking well over here, and Italy is 3 years into the most right wing government in the last 70 years.

I hope all of you are safe and know that I LOVE YOU and we are not going ANYWHERE!

Commissions Shop Subscribe to Patreon and get this as a lockscreen

[yellbug]

literally just bragging because we finally got this marble top early 20th century washstand up here and i set it up as a vanity last night

[kingrosalani]

I Refuse...

I refuse to see another obituary because someone felt too small cause their rights were taken away.

I refuse to go to another funeral because a trans woman down the street was beaten, bloody and bruised.

I refuse to lose another member of the youth because their so called "leaders" continue to fail their needs.

The youth shouldn't have to wait until they are 18 for their right or a voice to their own body.

I refuse to lose the right to my own voice and own body.

My mother was born three years after Hawai'i was "claimed" the 50th state.

My mother had already graduated high school when the Hawaiian language was no longer banned to be taught in school curriculums.

History may be in the past, but the past wasn't that long ago.

I cannot afford a setback of one year let alone four.

Our past didn't struggle and suffer just so we could do the same.

My journal entry from yesterday. I still stand on it. Stay safe. Take care of yourselves. Stay. Go be with community today.

[lydiajane-digital]

My body, my choice

[uovoc]

Orson Scott Card can write the most beautiful little turns of phrase and make the most tender and cutting observations about human nature. The price he paid for this talent was the ability to be normal about human reproduction

[d0g-bon3z]

I’d rather pretend I’m a cis straight girl for an hour than let an orange man control my rights. Fuck this shit and fuck this country! >:( who the hell let him run for president?!!? This is now an excuse to be more out than hiding in the closet. I will not let a rapist control who I am

[musingmanor]

[lieutenant-fred]

guess whose laptop got fixed. (im finally able to draw with my drawing tablet YIPPEE I need to relearn this all over again)

[ravendraws13]

Is now a good time to remind everyone art is inherently political and that they can send out messages and inspire people through their art whether it be drawing, making music etc. And not only can artist send out those messages but they should and they should be vocal about what they believe in? Especially in times like these ones?

Anyways here's a drawing of one of my main characters Nemu, she's a riot grrrl. Totally not relevant to any recent events in America or Britain.

I know Elons 'suspicious salute' got alot of attention but I'd like to bring attention to the feminists protests that happened across England on Saturday the 18th of this month. Unfortunately I could not attend the one in my city but I believe they need more engagement, keep an eye out for them! :)