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. Iâ€™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, theyâ€™d remark. Some of them even look like you.
Iâ€™d never tell anyone. Iâ€™d just smile and watch those tumbly bright-eyed beings chase eachother from wall to wall.
At night, when I canâ€™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.