(for survivors of domestic violence)
Domestic violence leaves marks that go far beyond the visible.
It touches the spirit, the sense of safety, the ability to trust.
Yet in the quiet courage of survivors — and in the memory of those we’ve lost —
there is an unbreakable strength, a reminder that healing, though hard, is possible.
This poem is written for them, and for anyone who still needs to hear that their story matters.
For every survivor who has ever been silenced,
and every heart still waiting to be free—
your story matters.
Your survival is a revolution.
May this piece remind us all to listen, to act, and to build a world where no one lives in fear of love.
Anyone can be a victim.
It does not matter how strong you are,
how kind, how loving,
how much light you’ve tried to bring into the world—
violence can still find its way in.
It hides in places that once felt safe.
It wears familiar faces.
It whispers, “This is your fault,”
until the echo feels like truth.
But it is not truth.
It never was.
We must find a way
to reach those who cause harm—
to help them see
that pain is not a language of love,
that control is not care,
that causing pain
because they are in pain
is not the answer.
No wound ever heals
by wounding another.
No heart ever mends
by breaking someone else’s.
The damage done by domestic violence
cannot be erased.
It weaves itself into memories,
into the pauses between breaths,
into the way someone glances
at every door before walking through.
Some survivors—
in their unimaginable grace—
choose to forgive.
But forgiveness is not forgetting.
It is not an invitation
to bear again what nearly broke them.
They should never be burdened
with the weight of what was done
as if their healing
is proof that it wasn’t that bad.
And too often,
the story ends
before there is healing at all.
Too often,
the names we say at vigils
belong to voices
that were never truly heard in life.
To the ones who didn’t survive—
we speak your names softly tonight,
and promise that your stories
will not be lost in silence.
To those who did survive—
your breath is an act of defiance.
Your healing is a revolution.
Your courage teaches us
that survival is not just staying alive—
it is learning to live again,
to trust again,
to love yourself again.
And to anyone still living in fear—
know this:
you are not alone.
There is help.
There is hope.
The pain that binds you now
does not define you forever.
Love is not meant to hurt.
It is meant to hold,
to lift,
to see you whole.
May we build a world
where no one confuses control for care,
where tenderness is strength,
and where peace—
real peace—
is what we teach our children
about what love looks like.
The Writings of Felina Silver 
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