The Queer Art Project

The sun and moon r lesbians in love & u cnt convince me otherwise 🦋🌙☀️❤️

pride dresses

Chaobunny Arts on Etsy

pastel colors girlfriends

Happy Pride!!

wrath

so I made some pride froggies and ... 🥺😔🐸

The first pride was a riot, more specifically a riot against police violence. Trans women of colour like Marsha P. Johnson paved the way for the celebration of pride today. You cannot celebrate your pride this month, or any month if you aren’t also supporting Black Lives Matter and the riots going on against police violence right now. Us white LGBTQ+ need to stand up for our black siblings and their rights, their struggles. We need to amplify their voices and show any support we can.

❤

Art by Liberal Jane

Lgbtq+ cassette tapes!

This is the first time that a new addition to my pride series was made because someone commissioned it 💖💛💙 I’d already planned ahead by ordering these colors a while ago!

Chin Hairs If some god wanted women to be hairless Women would not have hair. Instead, they have shame over small follicles bursting out of their Legs Lips Tits Arms Armpits and toes Backs and Chins like xenomorphs. I am not a Woman. Not a girl but people seem to decide I cannot be Nothing at all. A lifetime of loathing pink walls and slouching to hide my chest, a craving to amputate exposed legs under dress skirts, having boys act like ‘tomboy’ was a disease, and being someone else in all the photographs my mother frames on the living room walls. I was never her. She smiled in church aisles, white Communion shoes proudly displaying a one-inch kitty heel, knees shaking, already sacrificing a sense of self that was to be burned in altar candles. I cried to my mother later as her son chanted epithets, a battle cry of “Goat Legs, Goat Legs!” All my mother did was buy me a razor, showing me how to undo puberty for men waiting ‘til midnight, fingers tensing to reach my eighteenth birthday. For another decade I tried to be the girl on magazine covers, wondering why my pediatrician asked me about my bulging ribs. Didn’t she understand I was beautiful? I was a flesh-and-bones Barbie, smile painted on and dead blue eyes promising perfection. Ten years passed in a constant state of misery dreaming of taking a kitchen knife to my ponytail or my throat– whichever would be easier to cut through. Ten years of personal pronouns and learning to write a dissertation on queerness when I could not accept that it resonated with me, ten years anonymously whispering hypotheticals, Cis Heterosexuals screaming above the quiet that I was, at best, an inconvenience, and at worst, going to kill my mother either through grief or disappointment, never sure I would see senior year even if nobody laid a hand on me. All those times too-short jeans betrayed my hairy legs with screams to kill it, kill it with fire or butchers knives promises hurled at me that I would be alone unless I stripped away my skin for someone overwhelmingly apathetic: my own bodily prison warden with a single shackle on my ring finger. If marriage would be my prison, I would never commit the crime. In secret, I grow out my chin hairs in quiet defiance of forced femininity. They catch a glint of the light in the bathroom mirror and I look down to too-tight shirts and too-tight jeans in disappointment. I’ve already forgotten myself. I trade it in for the ugliest button-up I own And float on the euphoric breeze of being Nothing at all.

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(Image description: text in the colors of the original rainbow flag on a black background which says “Not queer like gay. Queer like escaping definition. Queer like some sort of fluidity and limitlessness at once. Queer like a freedom too strange to be conquered. Queer like the fearlessness to imagine what love can look like…and persue it. –Brandon Wint”. End image description.)