Dirty Secret

When I was only thirteen I gave birth to a son,
the only thing is I have never told anyone.
This is my dirty secret and it's mine to keep,
for the wounds it has caused run far too deep.
Not to talk is not to know and not to know is to never exist,
but a whole lifetime without my son was never what I had wished.
I just hope that he lived.
He might not have made it to one day old.
I mean, how could a baby possibly survive in the bitter rain and cold?
I deny nothing yet I regret it all,
I can still see him in my head; crying, wrapped in a muslin shawl.
But dare not judge me until you have felt that eternal pain,
it's like everything around you changes but your heart still feels the same.
My darling was born of the sabbath day and I watched as the current swept him and part of me away.
I left him with a note that clearly said "Take care of him. The mother is dead."
This poem would settle better had the note been true.
But just ask yourself; what if it happened to you?