too much

Last night, as I was sleeping, I dreamt – marvelous error! – that I had a beehive here inside my heart. And the golden bees were making white combs and sweet honey from my old failures.

Antonio Machado

sometimes it's just too much

this returning to the same thought 
again, 
again, 
again...
when laughter turns to anger
in a breath,
tripped by a word, a look, a sigh,
I am defeated,
oh, how others see me,
presuming, concluding, deducing
based on the evidence before them,
not knowing 
I do not speak their tongue,
can it be true that I am best regarded
from a distance,
so as to keep all these others safe
from the sharpness of my flaws,
the accent tones of my being,
the beehive in my heart.