I’m a writer of tennis shoe skid mark hieroglyphics,

i.e., I make thousand-year-old black muddy marks

on hardwood foyer ground.

My Casper-filming-location-esque mansion

has a home gym.

My side gig is modeling heavy duty fishing gear

because none of my mirror selfies show any skin.

The fuzz on my lip is a reflection of my spirit.

My basketball shorts feel like rainwater

on my burning post-workout thighs

when the breeze from the balcony

brushes them just right.

I am quieter than the leaves beneath your feet.

You better not forget me

or think any other man has competition

on me.

I play baseball in the fog,

on the moor,

in the dead of night,

blasting Sublime,

and I’m good at shortstop,

but I’m fine just playing catch

if you’re not too scared.

You think I hunt prey, but everything I do is self-defense,

which is why I’m so damn acquitted with a bat and a glove

and a tongue as sharp as my teeth.

My buzz cut’s grown out at this point and cold with sweat,

only colder with the air– but I promise,

I’m no sissy.

I’m not just glass, I’m bulletproof.

I fill my green Gatorade water bottle with blood and mud

and I beat my chest when I gag.

I’m squinting all the time, I know.

When I want you to watch me,

watch me.

I vape and make the fog thicker.

I get hungry when I’m addicted.

When I miss the ball, I’ll yell–

Who am I? Who am I? Who am I?