Life that isn't life

I move in half-life. Everything me is a great lethargy.
There is a sweltering heat, but this isn't what suppresses me, what pushes me under.
A pink slide of mind-control is the benefactor, and the bane.
It lies before me, forcing me out of the mind's twilight:
Decisions must be made.

My limbs are imbued with a great restlessness. I need to move, but as I am consigned to healing, I know I should not. And yet, I can do no less, because this force, its force, is moving me.
But my mind is dead, and it wants for nothing, has its eyes on nothing, and can be moved by nothing.
The only movement here is a circle, and it is a pointless one.

I talk better, yes, this much is true.
Inhibition is no longer part of me and I am become my potential.
I am small and barely out of the cocoon, but already I see, already I know; you enjoy me more.
But I don't.

Because I am not myself and I feel nothing of myself.

Wreck me, ruin me. This here is not what I want.
To be miserable is better than this vacancy, this dampening of my emotions.
When I move around others, this vacuity is a boon. It deflects and delegates, it renders immediacy a comfortable lie. Something rational, finally, out of what used to be an ever-present and ever-pressing need. But I miss that need.

I say it dampens my emotions, and it helps; certainly with the bad. But where is my good, these things that were me also?
Let me feel them instead. Let me feel you. Unconstrained as I was, I could feel you, I could move in you. I was understanding.
I was emotion, what am I now?

And on my own, I am drowned.
I look away and hours pass, my thoughts a blank.
My desperation is shoved aside, out of sight. It helps so much, I am aware of this.
But everything else is there too, in the dark with it, and that is unacceptable.
I am now a drone, where before I was a whine, a whisper, a shout, a scream. A multitude of howling potential.

This will not do.

Live on my own, or with you. For who am I living now?
I think not even for myself.