by Rebecca Nestor

I dreamt of bones 
Scraping against wood-stained red 
I averted my eyes 
Ashamed and imperfect, but not dead
I bit my tongue to keep the silence 
And the blood tasted like forgiveness
What is His crime 
To deserve such violence
I asked as I stood witness 
In prayer, He hung His head
I asked again, who is this man 
To which, He simply said 
I am 

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Rebecca Nestor is a stay at home mom living in Virginia. She has a passion for creating stories and poetry that feel deeply personal, yet entirely relatable. Her work has appeared in Levitate, Red Weather, Rue Scribe, and Awakenings.