Ode to the Women’s Restroom

**This was inspired by one of our bathroom breaks where Mikayla let me go into a stall after her that had no toilet paper left and Andrea saved me.

Ode to the Women’s Restroom
by Madison (Maddie) Diring

Peace treaties signed with toilet paper passed under stall doors,
a stranger country providing aid to one in need.
Tampons and pads given without the exchange of quarters–
no one suffers through cardboard here.
Drunk talks of “leave him!” and “girl you look hot”
at 2 AM next to a sequined dynamite you met in the mirror,
your glances to the right seeing shimmers of gloss,
a tube passed to her left now coloring your lips.

Gracious fingers holding stall doors,
skin tipped metal– my friend, the keeper,
glimmers of an angel above “angel shot” posters.
The only gossip is a scripture of Sharpie against peeled paint,
“Aaron has HPV” and “James is a serial cheater”
are our two warning lanterns from @every_kiss_begins_with_kaylyn

Three pairs of white Airforces in four square feet of space,
alternating pee breaks the only melody behind lyrics
of dumb texts and inside jokes.
“I’m gonna pee on top of yours” and “why did I wear a romper bro”
A nonsexual undressing– vulnerability so normalized,
the only bodily comparisons being how much pee each patron had.

Borrowed deodorant precursing “sorry I didn’t shave”
Exchanged Snapchat usernames following “omfg this is my girl, my sisterrrrr”
An ass shake in the corner to “omg I love this song”
Too many spritzes of Champagne Toast body spray and a “I just feel like I stink so bad”
Paper towels wiping sweat off backs
or cutting middle school track biker shorts tucked under miniskirts.

The sticky beer-piss floor, littered with pixie dust and half-drunk vodka crans,
it hears our call:
“Should I go home with him?”
“Girl… you have a boyfriend.”
“Do you have his location?”
“She’s not a lesbian… she’s leading you on.”
“No no no, it’s super cute. Swear to god.”
“Stop touching it! It’s gonna make it worse.”

No need for “Hi, my name is a Girl’s Girl.”
We already are. We have to be.

Armpits snorting deodorant lines.
Hips shimming in the florescent, dark light.
Fists banging on plank doors.
Hands holding hair.

This hallowed hall.
Our asylum.

Join us, woman,
in our collective burning of birth certificate formalities,
give a small smirk after the sink do-si-do,
check my eyeliner and mascara.

Dance with me, woman,
and here me say:
you belong here.
we’ll keep you safe.