I was obsessed with watching Robbie Lawler fight,
One time he split his top lip in half; it made his words sound like they were leaking air.
They had to wipe the blood off him with towels.
I liked him because he made it look hard.
I had the impression he'd woken up in the wrong century
He'd found a home collecting souls in an octagon instead of a muddy battlefield.
I would watch his fights in a dark room, over and over, to try and tap into
That honed sense of determination and willpower
He was anaemic and overwhelmed from spilling his own blood every night
Being forced to replay the same wars through the glare of my screen
I selfishly drank in his victories, exalting in blood without spilling any of my own
He seemed almost grateful when Woodley knocked him down with one blow
As though for a while he didn't have to try so hard for everyone
That he could lick his wounds instead, in the peace of the shadow realm