may 🐇

✦ emails to apollo ✦

— hi, i’m may — welcome to my little pantheon.

“tell me, muse, of the storyteller who fell in love with the gods.”

۶ৎ : about this blog

— this is a place where myth bleeds into poetry where gods are human, mortals are divine, and every story still echoes across centuries.

i post about:

🪽 — greek mythology (especially the tragic, messy, heart-wrenching kind).

🪽 — interpretations of myth through art, books, and modern media.

🪽 — occasional ramblings about literature, history, and storytelling.

🪽 — percy jackson.

some recurring themes here:

— achilles and patroclus: love, rage, and the tragedy of being remembered ( obsessed? maybe... )

— you can always send asks or thoughts about your favorite myths — i love hearing how people interpret these old stories. this blog is a temple for discussion, not dogma.

“we were golden, and we knew it.”

like, imagine ares watching some guy on the internet yell about being a “real man” while he’s sitting there in full bronze armor, sipping bloodwine, surrounded by women who could absolutely snap his spine in half without breaking formation.

ares wasn’t the god of violence for fun. he was the god of passion in battle, loyalty to your people, and dying for something you believe in. he loved warriors with conviction — not dudes who think punching drywall is a personality.

he blessed the amazons because they understood him. because they fought fiercely, lived freely, and didn’t need to prove anything to anyone.

he’s sunshine with a temper.

the type of guy who’d write you a love poem, read it out loud to everyone, and then shoot your boyfriend with an arrow because “you didn’t appreciate my art.”

he’s the golden boy who needs to be adored.

the kind of perfection that cracks if you look too close — too bright, too proud, too desperate to be loved back the same way he loves: obsessively, beautifully, destructively.

and that’s the thing about apollo — he’s not just light, he’s the heat that burns if you stay too long.

they remember the pomegranate seeds, the abduction, the mother’s grief, but not the way she learned the language of shadows, not the way the dead bent their knees when she passed.

she entered the underworld as a maiden and carved herself into a queen.

she wore the darkness until it bloomed for her.

the flowers still grew — they just grew in ash instead of sunlight.

and when she returned to the surface, she didn’t leave her crown behind.

she brought the underworld with her, quietly, in her pulse.

half spring, half death — both entirely hers.

persephone wasn’t ruined. she evolved.

as if dying for someone isn’t enough proof.

achilles, who was destined for glory, and patroclus, who was destined to follow him anywhere.

achilles, who could not be touched — except by him.

patroclus, who could not be remembered — except through him.

they lived in the space between war and tenderness, between prophecy and choice.

and when patroclus fell, achilles became everything he swore he’d never be.

rage, grief, divinity, destruction — love so vast it consumed even his own legend.

it’s not that their story ended in death.