I wonder sometimes—is it a thing? That busted people gravitate toward other busted people?
Not busted like broken beyond repair. Busted like... scraped-up knees under patchwork jeans. Busted like hearts duct-taped together with gallows humor and thrift store empathy. Busted like old radios that still hum, static and all, if you tune just right.
I saw this image recently, one of those “scroll past unless it punches you in the chest” kinds: