Crash Test Boyfriend by Noah Jung


Where have you been hiding lately? by Sammy Slabbinck
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Crash Test Boyfriend

Months, and I’m
still sleeping on the
floor of the car,
picking at the gutted

leather of the seats.
He always keeps the
floor clean, maybe
to blow air into

our love story, expand
the vessel to take up
more space in the
insides

than his
own traumas do.
He let me sit
shotgun once.

Teething, hands blind
and roaming,
I’m only smiling right
now because the dark

has no rhetoric
refracting
onto the dashboard.
The stop sign, the city,

the highway, as in why
did I happen to you?
The way
I sleep
now is my body at dissent,

the same limp-
ness I assumed the shape
of back when he unclicked
our seatbelts, said

he wanted to love

me. Momentum, the
jolt, I
hurtled
like an asymptote

and my face, my
face like apocalypse,
intersected
with the wind-

ow shield. Even in the
hours I don’t sleep,
I still stay in the car.
He still scabs like a city.




Noah Jung

Noah Jung is a writer stationed in Hawaii. Their works has been/will be published in Hobart, The Blueshift Journal, and Winter Tangerine Review. Currently, Noah is a fan of indie RPGs, and thinks that Napstablook is kind of cute.