Crimson

I live in a cage 
with small little spaces 
to reach my hands out of to grasp
for something that I will never reach
Could they have all been right?
Could I really have been as bad
as they had said I was?
How could one person's point of view,
especially that of their own self image,
vary so much from that of those who 
have claimed to know her?
I don't know who I am.
They all tell me who they think I am
so who am I then?
Am I this or am I that?
Who is seeing me for who I am?
Myself is unknown to me because
I question everything now.
Even my own sanity
since my thoughts run deeper
than the depths of the ocean.
I am unstable, but never had
I ever been on solid ground.
My mind has always been
stuck in an inattentive
state, and so I stay there,
gladly avoiding the topic
of what is real, and what
will happen, because I
much rather fantasize
about what may happen.
My recollections of the past
are a mix of sadness and gladness
but I just don't know what
it is that I am missing. 
There is something,
I know, because my
image is tainted and
that of the others is 
polished and boarderd
with crimson.
But...
When they see Crimson,
They see a Rose,
When I see Crimson,
I see Blood.