For a month or two my muscles and skeleton have been in a fight and you’ve been ringside hollering holds and throwing elaborate curses ‘though it’s a draw every night.
After each match you wipe my mouth of hardway blood and rub me down, whisper “you got this, baby” into my hair. You be the enforcer, I’ll be the babyface. This is how we tag team. This is how you love me now.
Maybe I shouldn’t have chosen Frida Kahlo as my spirit animal. Maybe I should have sat up straight, ditched the horn long ago (my beautiful albatross whose voice I love second only to yours) But there’s no time for regret when one is in training.
It’s the main event and I’ve laced my new boots and pose in my leotard. “Take my picture before the match,” I ask. You refuse, saying I am more beautiful when I have wrestled hard and stand up again.