i don’t know why i remember

bending over a sink to fix my makeup 

in the boardwalk’s public bathroom

after the waves hit my face 

and my mascara dripped down my cheeks 

in morbid black lines 

i don’t know why i remember

the smell of the chlorine in my throat 

that could not compensate 

for the uncleanliness of the place 

the drips of anonymous liquid on the floors

the damp paper towels strewn on cheap linoleum

as mothers with overstuffed tote bags brushed past me 

i remembered how my own mother taught me 

to flush the public toilets by kicking the handle 

and to turn on the sink faucets with your elbows 

that the toilet seats held stds 

and the door handles were covered

in more bacteria than the mcdonald’s ball pit

and i thought how strange it was

that i let my face almost touch the spout of the faucet 

that i let my mascara wand touch the side of the sink

that i broke every rule i learned in childhood 

because i was less afraid of chlamydia 

than i was of letting the world see my bare face