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.