In High School, a girl punched me in the face.
As if to say, thank you very much, or something,
I let her.
I knew it was coming, the clues were there,
defensive yelling, racial slurs,
the step closer.
Inches from her face I became transfixed,
the bead of sweat between her brows,
her flaring nostrils.
Balling her fingers into a fist, she swung
her arm backwards, in preparation, eyes fearful,
I braced for impact that never came,
almost disappointed by how much it didn’t hurt,
so much for violence.
She had spent so much energy screaming abuse at me,
that there wasn’t any left over
to leave a bruise.