Keys and Torches

are 90% of the witchy bloggers here from VA (or, east coast in general)

Honey & Hearth Cocktail {bourbon, yellow chartreuse, ginger, lemon}

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Shadow Boxes, Terrariums and Figurines by Meadow & Fawn on Instagram

L E G E N D A R Y

Photos by Carey Lynne Fruth and Sophie Spinelle of Shameless Photography

( he / him or they / them please )

Instagram: pansystbattie

More Greek Goddesses

  Part 1

My art here

Morpheus is in the legs that fall asleep and the eyes you can’t keep open, and the endless cups off coffee that didn’t work, caffeine immunity creeping in. He’s the sand in your eyes the day after an allnighter, coaxing you to pause, letting you know the world can wait a few hours. In the vivid daydreams and dizzy thoughts that conjure themselves into vision even when you don’t close your eyes. He’s the sudden smells that take you back a decade and are gone as quickly as they come.

Hades stands not in graveyards but on every corner and every bridge. He crosses the street with you as you contemplate the oncoming cars. Dutiful accountant, he knows your name, and it waits on his tongue. He’s not there to rush you, nor help you. Perhaps his presence is enough. Even in ideation, Hades is in cold fingers and forgotten teas, crumbled leaves that tell you he’s taken her away again. He’s in the rinds of fruit and discarded husks, the plucked leaves, the end, always waiting at the core of everything.

Persephone is in the fresh fruit, ripe and ready to burst, eating them, destroying them feels like a sin, like delicious betrayal. She’s the first sharp bite and the way the juice rolls down your chin, in the decisions you hold steadfastly onto. she’s in defiant stares and the way you walk in like you own the place, because as long as she’s by your side, you do. When people whisper your name and pretend they don’t see you, she’s there, by your side, lifting your chin. Fear may also be hate, but it is also fear, and that is your power.

Aphrodite is in the crisp line of lipstick, and the boldness of a sharp cateye, but also the next day when it’s smeared and freckled with chipped mascara, the glance in the mirror when you see yourself like this and shrug, ‘not so bad’. She’s in the burst of warmth and weak you feel when you watch a child laugh with its grandmother. She’s there in that moment you fit into those jeans, she’s there when you slip into sweatpants and have a second slice of cake. When you shit talk your ex she’s there, nodding and making sure you know he was no good for you.

Hail to the great lord of the vine

Roman sarcophagus with Dionysiac procession, 150 AD.