To give birth to a living thing, one sacrifices. The thing in your belly is a slumbering seed and then it is a wriggling fish, whose breaths flutter your inside. It grows. The thing in your belly eats of you and interrupts your sleep; in its selfishness it lashes about and hurts you. Its needs corrupt your own and your confused body subjects you to a series of aches and ills and frightening discharges.
You grow fat with the thing in you. It grows fat on you, eating your food and flesh. Its roots in your belly sap your strength.
And when the thing in you grows too large to be borne any further, when its thrashing and shoving to escape your hateful prison of a body finds outlet, you are in pain again, surpassing, and your hours are marked in blood and struggling. You do things you are designed poorly to do but must do, because now there is no alternative. There is only one way out, now. For both of you.
When it is over you are scarred and you are weak and bloodied, and you have expelled filth and strange things and lie panting, and the thing that was inside you is now outside you, ugly and wet and malformed, and it looks at you, and it bleats a weak bleat of endless neediness. And although it has been devouring you slowly for months, you succumb, and you feed it. You feed it yourself. You give it all of you, all that is left after what it has put you through. Whatever the thing can take, you give, and the thing can take everything. With each day it grows more lovely, and you more haggard, more tired, more drained.
You have made it. Your bones became its bones; your heart became its heart. It lies against you and sobs recklessly for more, more, more. This is all it will ever do. And you will give it: more, more, more.