Erin Kenworthy

they/them

@garbageman360

I’m an 18 year old queer actor and writer, with one of my favourite mediums being poetry. Majority of my art is an attempt visualise my mental state in accordance to sexuality, the family dynamic, the cynicism of teenhood, and my poetry tends to be a series of train-of-thought word vomit in response.

I’m heavily inspired by Sarah Kane, Richard Siken and TS Elliot, and love creating work to be interpreted however the reader empathises with. This work was written in the midst of 2020 where the only thing I was legally allowed to was sit in my room and reflect on every single decision I’ve ever made.

Kitchen Sink Massacre

Oh poor darling

Unfortunate accident

Intentional idiot

Wash the glasses and repent

Remove the evidence of the night

Lipstick on the rim

Excess in the depths

Poison slipping down your throat

Laugh with malice the whole time

Now there’s glass in the garbage disposal

Fish it out with your fingers

Don’t stop to think

You foolish thing

Blood dripping down your hands

Let it soak through you

The thoughts seep out

Onto the floor

Into the kitchen sink

I can taste your disappointment 

Swirls around my tongue

Stains my teeth 

Like last night’s wine

I’ll spit it out

Into the kitchen sink

Just take the towel and wipe it up

What’s come over you?

Just take it, do what you do well

Erase this little outburst 

There’s nothing left to prove

No one here to make a fuss

It’s just a scratch, you foolish thing

The soapy water is murky

A rancid Jordan river

And you’re disgusted

Being old is not merciful

And you’re disgusting now

Dunk your head

Into the water

Cleanse yourself

Or else the blood will stain 

Bubbles slip down your throat

And you will learn to take it 

So drown yourself

In the kitchen sink

I miss house parties 

You’re standing in the backyard of your friend’s house,

Sobbing into the shoulder of a handsome stranger.

It’s like embracing a brick wall

The warmth and softness absorbed by your pathetic anguish

At 10pm on a friday night.

But who can blame them for looking away,

Uncomfortable, if not embarrassed

By your public collapse?

After all,

They only wanted a cigarette.

UNTITLED

I raised myself on nicotine

And a taste for insufficiency

I count my sorrows til they well up to my eyes

Poisoning from the inside

I’ll scoop them up and feed them to you

Taste pollution I’ve created

Stewing in my mind for eons

Ageing me for years

I already grieve what I haven’t yet lost

But what became of me