Post-Biological Clock

by 

Sometimes I pretend I have a metawomb inside me.

Things would grow there. Children, I mean. Dozens at a time. Girls and boys. I might not be able to stop. I’d populate my entire livingspace with pudgy pinkfaced versions of myself, and when I went to the recreation floor, strangers would come up and ask me how I managed to adopt so many. How strange, they’d remark. Some of them even look like you.

I’d never tell anyone. I’d just smile and watch those tumbly bright-eyed beings chase eachother from wall to wall.

At night, when I can’t sleep, I press my hand to the soft space above my hips and think of my body filled with pink goo and hundreds of tiny, tiny people, growing like unspoken words.

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