Grounding

The walls have ears
Eyes
A snarling mouth

The walls have learned the skill of throwing voices
Their bongo tongues
Tossing thumps
Boot-stomps
Down the halls

The walls have gained consciousness
But not a conscience
They’ve asked to be called "who's there?"
But also respond to "that night last July"

That night last July
It surrounds me
The walls inch closer in the dark
There's a coping strategy for moments like this
It's called grounding
List the things you can see
          Hear
                      Smell
                                      Taste
                                                     Feel

It's called grounding
But this ground is not reliable
The walls are in cahoots with the carpets
All hallways
Wrap back around
To that night last July

It's called grounding
You're not there
You're here
It’s not the same
You’re not in danger

But the walls do great impressions
And have learned to cook, brewing up the smell
Of summer dust and fresh blood

The walls meet
Huddled together in the corners
They covet mirrors, strategically pointed
To catch the light of the moon between the cracks of the curtain
So a knife-edge glint
Shimmers in my peripheral
Every time I toss and turn

The walls have agreed
To go to couples counseling with me
But they send the doorknob on their behalf
As they couldn’t quite fit on the bus

The knob sits calmly on the opposite end of the couch
In a steady tone, accuses of me of projecting

When I return to my spiteful home
The walls have gone on strike
Refusing to shelter me
They've become transparent, letting the whole world in