Doubt

I'm a good person.
Or am I?  
Based on my interactions with others
I'm not sure.
My mind quite precarious at the best of times,
Naive, in their trust I implore.
Though quite often the doormat I find myself as,
Covered in footprints on the floor.  
Then internalise that, like its matter of fact,
And hate myself a little bit more.  
 
Because it couldn't be coincidence,  
It must have some significance;  
That i bring out, in those around,  
A certain spite, maliciousness
Though perhaps it is ambivalence,
Traits in me that seem to prominent,
In tiny measures I can be pleasure,
But as a main I'm much too dominant.
 
Maybe a back handed compliment?
Perhaps I'm misunderstood.
Feel real empathy, a gift to me,
To see, believe they're good.  
Yet it always seems to be,  
I'm trustworthy and end up hurt.  
For here I am, questioning myself,
Doubting what I'm worth.
 
Am I a good person?
I think I am, though fragile,
And filled with flaws.  
An open book but look inside a library
And a thousand shut off doors.  
I could be yours.
I could be anyone's, but here I stand alone.  
Am i a good person?
I hope I am, and least i am my own.