You linger in a clinic waiting room as the receptionist stares at you. Beside you, a pregnant  woman fidgets while a man sinks into his phone. Nervous, you pick up a magazine and find  Lennart Nilsson’s A Child Is Born: an embryo floating in a blank void, detached from the carrying  body.  

You walk to the door and are greeted by a nurse. She is uncanny, her body echoing your own small fidgets as though she has borrowed your nerves. When you turn your frame toward yourself, your body is a naked ballpoint pen animation, similar to the ink you used to fill out your paperwork again and again, choppy and trembling, sketched into motion. On the walls hang images of womb interiors rendered in pen. 

At the end of the hall is a bathroom. You squat over the toilet and piss into a cup and onto the  strip. As you wait, two faint lines rise like ghosts. Returning the tests to the table, your  first-person perspective loosens from you. The camera drifts. Suddenly you are watching  yourself from outside your body, caught in a third-person spell, as the doctor inserts an IUD.  Tears gather and spill down your face.  

Then the ultrasound machine calls you closer. You slip back into first person as the doctor  presses the probe inside you, searching for an image, translating your body into signal. When  you leave the OBGYN, you are tethered to a giant hand in a bloodied bathroom. You remove a  tampon and drop it into a toilet that refuses to flush. Suction pulls you through a vaginal opening  and into the first biome.  

You arrive in a village of womb figures watching a candle drip white wax into a pond. On closer  inspection, a figure milks a condom of the same substance into the pool. When you approach  the flame, you become a human-faced sperm, smelling for eggs, drawn toward two ovarian  figures cradling a cave with a copper IUD. Contact kills you. Copper is poison to your kind.  

You spill into a yeast feast of bread and wine. A figure gnaws at bread as your movement dilates  outward into another party: a waterpark of cum where bodies dive and dance through viscous  pools while a spinning vibrator churns the liquid. Elsewhere, Lysol is sprayed violently into  another chamber of the womb. Figures dodge and scatter. Your vision clouds beneath the  chemical mist. You find an old-timey bottle promising new and improved feminine hygiene: one  teaspoon of Lysol to each quart of warm water, mixed and poured into a douche bag.  

When you turn, another figure messily licks a birth control pill packet. Inspecting the discarded  duplicate by their face pulls you into a tundra. A towering uncanny figure exhales snowflakes.  Nearby, someone’s tongue is frozen to a glowing, egg-like mass.  

With each dilation, the womb reveals another layer: stone huts and castles, miners drilling into  the uterine wall, blood sheeting into a lake. You lift a tampon through the liquid mouth and swim  out of bounds returning to the OBGYN, fidgety, waiting to be inspected.