Some moments divide life into two parts: before they happened, and after.
I Saw Him Lose Control is about emotional and physical abuse within the family home. Abuse doesn’t just affect one person; it affects the entire family unit, leaving scars that remain long after the shouting has stopped and the broken pieces have been swept away.
The poem captures everyone in the room at the same moment. It isn’t only about the perpetrator or the victim. It’s about the shared fear, the silence, the anticipation, and the way every person present is changed by what unfolds.
People often imagine violence beginning with a punch.
In reality, it usually begins much earlier.
It begins with a tightening jaw.
A different tone of voice.
A silence that suddenly feels dangerous.
If you’ve lived in that environment, you learn to recognise those signs long before anyone else notices them. Your body reacts before your mind does. You become hyper-aware, watching every movement, every word, hoping something will stop what you already know is coming.
The poem describes the moment the perpetrator has stopped listening, stopped arguing, and simply lets the abuse loose. Reason has disappeared. Whatever chance there was of calming the situation has gone, and everyone in the room knows it.
One of the most heartbreaking aspects of abuse within the family home is that the perpetrator is often someone we love.
That is the tragedy at the heart of this poem.
The person causing the fear isn’t a stranger. They’re a parent, a partner, a sibling, or another family member. Someone whose love, guidance, and protection should have made home feel safe.
That creates an emotional conflict that can last for years. You can love someone and still be frightened of them. You can remember moments of kindness while also carrying memories of the harm they caused. Those two truths can exist side by side, and that is often one of the most difficult parts of surviving family abuse.
I Saw Him Lose Control isn’t about removing someone’s humanity. It’s about acknowledging the devastating impact their actions had on everyone around them. When one person loses control, the consequences rarely stop with them. The fear spreads through the entire family, changing the way each person thinks, feels, and remembers home.
That is why the poem focuses so much on small details.
The room feeling smaller.
Everyone holding their breath.
The mug hitting the floor.
The broken handle.
Trauma often remembers objects more clearly than conversations. Our minds cling to tiny details because they are easier to face than the fear itself.
The line:
“Fuck… not again.”
Is the turning point.
It isn’t shock.
It’s recognition.
There is a heartbreaking difference between witnessing violence for the first time and knowing the pattern so well that you can predict it before it happens.
One thing I’ve learned is that we often think we’ve overcome abuse, that we’ve left it behind. But trauma doesn’t always stay in the past. Sometimes the smallest thing can trigger it and cause it to rear its ugly head once again.
That is exactly what happened when I wrote this poem.
A memory surfaced, and with it came the feelings I thought had long since settled.
For me, writing is a way of bringing those memories back into the present. It allows me to acknowledge what happened, understand it from where I stand today, and give those experiences a voice instead of letting them remain buried. It doesn’t erase the past, but it helps me carry it with a little more understanding.
The ending matters just as much.
Nobody talks.
Nobody cries.
Instead, everyone quietly clears away the broken pieces.
That isn’t really about cleaning the floor.
It’s about what so many families do after abuse. Life carries on as though nothing happened. The broken mug disappears, but the fear remains.
Many people who grew up in abusive homes will recognise that silence. It can become louder than the shouting itself.
I don’t write poems like this to dwell on the past.
I write them because these experiences are often hidden behind closed doors, leaving survivors believing they are alone.
They aren’t.
If this poem resonates with you, I hope it reminds you of one thing:
What happened to you should never have become normal.
And surviving it took far more strength than anyone on the outside will ever fully understand.
Thank you for reading
Your DislexicPoet 🖤