dysfunctional people make the world turn around, the ones so broken we’d rather not acknowledge their existence, the ones so broken they’d rather not acknowledge their existence either
the chief inspectors whose whisky bars get them to the end of each case, the NHS nurses surviving each shift on four hours sleep - if they’re lucky, the haunted artists undressing their souls for a story, a painting, a troubled verse
and we embrace them, idolise them, claim to love them though if we knew them we’d run a thousand miles away
because deep down we recognise them, see reflected the lonely truth that we are kith and kin haunted, broken, fragmented souls, just like them
