Northface on your backs,

Uggs on your feet.

Walking on your toes down the street.

Static Styles looking like everyone else,

Looking like every girl you pass.

Girls with infinity scarves and,

Victoria’s Secret Pink sweatpants.

Glory be to the girls,

Glory to the ones who carve their personalities from stone.

Glory be to the daughters of Eris.

The ones who don’t give a damn.

And you’ll always know,

 Whether a girl belongs to Aphrodite or Eris.

Aphrodite’s beauties wrap themselves with Maybelline ,

They are Cover Girls.

They were born in Sephora’s.

But Eris’s children look in the mirror and know,

That to truly shake a man’s world you must stare into his eyes,

And never back down.

Send him earthquake messages.

Turn his earth into a living Tartarus .

Not because we want to give him some profound perspective,

But just for the hell of it.

Glory be to the girls,

Who double as passionate creatures,

And academic success stories.

To the demigods of every day.

Aphrodite’s thousands of women simply work the system,

By wearing seductive clothing.

But Eris’s hundreds of women buck the system,

They rip their clothes and say “Fuck the system.”

“I cannot care what you think.”

“I cannot care if you hate my thighs, my lips, nose, stomach, breasts, or eyes,”

“An unaccepted status is better for me,”

“It means I can never be forced into patriarchy,”

“I am not so influenced by your porn-star of an Aphrodite,”

“That I must spend all my time fussing over smeared eye-liner,”

“When I could be breaking tradition.”

“I would much rather create chaos, than desire,”

“At least chaos highlights what is wrong with this world.”

Static Aphrodite styles of women play along with the script.

Daughters of Eris love improve,

They conjure up words from the deep,

Dripping with emotions and meaning,

Challenging newcomers to stop static styles.

And be dynamic demigods.