DRAMATIC MONOLOGUE Poem: Diagnose, by Kyle Collins

The doctor said
I’m broken—
and suddenly
I see the broken that’s always been me.

It’s such a relief to finally understand
the misfires, the restless nights,
the ache I couldn’t name—
but also,
a kind of devastating wonder,
how did I live nearly forty years
without knowing?

I imagine the child I might’ve been—
supported, held, soothed—
instead of being told off, again and again,
as though everything inside me—
was wrong.

I don’t dwell here, really,
I don’t turn over these days
in a slow, sad ritual—
but there’s a small part of me
that still wonders.

Time is just a witness—
And patient, I observe.
Even if I flattened its curve,
walked it right to the start—
would I choose to unravel?

Would I trade my loves, my losses,
my failures, my triumphs—
all the messy, luminous chaos
that made me who I am?

No.
I realise I can’t risk erasing them.

So no, I’m not broken.
I’m just…
not whole, either.