Kids Come First

I identified seven individual forms. They used my uterus for a playground; my own miniature rugby team kicking the shit out of my insides. They were the size of ping-pongs when I first noticed them, when they first became active. Within a week I had plums. I wondered how thin my skin would stretch before it popped open like an overblown balloon.
I don't know where they came from or how they got inside of me. Maybe I ate something or maybe aliens visited and erased every sparkle of memory about my abduction.
I should have gone to the doctor when I first detected movement, but maternal instincts kicked in. My babies terrified me, but they contained my DNA, at least I thought they did. I guess I shouldn't have assumed. If I went to the hospital they would have been taken out of me, killed, and sliced into sections to examine. I should have let the doctors do their job. I had visions of a melon baller removing scoops of bloody, squirming flesh from my belly. The revulsive thought gagged me and caused me to lay a hand on my massive belly and caress a churning bulge. I had to give them the benefit of the doubt and believe in their innocence.
One of them was bigger than the others and more aggressive, already asserting his dominance. I called him Alpha. Twice, his kicks knocked me to my knees and sent the air out my mouth like a blowhole.
My passengers got as big as softballs, which doesn't sound that bad until you consider seven of them together in my womb. No wonder they fought for living space. They shifted continuously and reminded me of tadpoles worming around in its translucent cocoon. I wondered if they looked like tadpoles or something similar, but mostly I tried not to think about it.