My heart bleeds too, you know

When I'm hurting
She won't have it.
When I'm sad
when I despair
when it's hopeless
she tries
to argue me out of it.
As if one can reason away
pain.
As if emotions
can be refuted with logic.
Every time I feel
if it's not happiness
(and when is that?)
she won't have it.
Apparently sorrow
is exclusively
the realm of the woman.
Usually I keep my mouth shut
I say nothing
But sometimes
I slip.
Now you may be thinking
I'm speaking of
a lover
a girlfriend
or some sort of female friend.
No.
Fooled you.
It's the MOTHER.
And it's been like this with her
forever.
But she's had no qualms
to vent her spleen, her
gall bladder
her sorrow, histrionics
and pain
on me
for decades.
As I said...
the realm of the woman.
(And yes, all the women I've been with--same goddamn thing.
But I digress.  Let's save them
for other poems.)
Usually, with the MOTHER
I lock it down.
But like I said, I slip sometimes.
But the rest of time...
"You never tell me ANYTHING.
Everything is always OK with you,
but I know it's not.  Why don't you ever
SAY anything?"
You know the answer.
Let her complain. 
I still call and visit.
I could be worse--there's no counting
the white-haired, bent old ladies
sitting in their parlors, dressed in the Sunday best
smelling of baby powder
clutching purses with pretzled fingers
waiting for a call
that never comes.