The house full of crosses
I live in a house full of crosses, the ones on the rosaries placed on each door you might think, but no.
I live in a house full of crosses, more like a cemetery of dreams, a never ending path of agony and nostalgia for what could've happened or probably what could've been done better.
I live in a house full of crosses, and in all of them you can see the infinite list of sins for which I have been crucified, there they are, carved with the sharp nails on those fingers that point at the sacrifices done for everyone else's peace.
I live in a house full of crosses, this house lives in me, it surrounds my mind and seems to be following me wherever I go, can I move out?
Maybe it is not the house, nor the crosses, maybe I am the house, and I'm carrying crosses that have never belonged to me.





















