Sitting for hours
To have her picture done
Daring not to move
Not even to blink
For fear that the painter
Will get everything all wrong
Eyes lined with red
From staring fixedly all day
Wishing for a break
But to scared to request one
Sat for so long
With arms crossed before her
She could feel her hands
Start to merge into one
The phantom itch on her nose
Not going unnoticed
Driving her up the wall
This is the last time
That Bette agrees
To have her image painted
On the back
Of a silver-plated mirror
With nothing else to do
For the boredom is killing her,
No, it’s eating her alive.
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