You call, every now and then
Inebriated, intoxicated and high
on all but life.
You say it's a farce, this life;
an illusion you refuse to partake of.

You call me, though.
I'm no illusion, evidently.
I'm good company, a good laugh;
I'm a good lover, a good friend;
I'm a fairly good mother,
but above all, I'm a good punching bag.

I take in your blows,
as if your fist was made of butter,
as if these bruises would melt
into sunny delight,
to be served with crispy toast
for breakfast.