Intensity is synonymous with obsession,
if you look at it from the perfect angle,
and boy is Cheryl Blossom an obsessive minded girl:
the image she presents,
gleaming and ethereal and
red red red;
this identity of hers
speaking volumes of her personage
just as loud and well-spoken as
how she builds herself, how she carries herself
to maintain the perception of utter refinement.
She craves attention,
the reverberation in her bones
as people look and talk and interact with her
brings her the energy to keep moving,
but she wished she could know what it's like
to hide behind the bushes
and observe the world
without a glossy red view…
but that would never happen,
not realistically.
The work she's put in
to maintain her glorious image,
a mix of velveteen steel and red-stained ivory,
pristine and questionable, prim and obscene,
has been built up too long,
racing like cars in her thoughts,
rooting like flowers in her organs
for longer than imagined
and Cheryl cannot walk away from that
if she wants to stay recognizably her.
So here exists Cheryl,
clawing her way to the top
without breaking a nail or a sweat:
long live the princess in chains.