Birth of a Story

After a late night of labor, with tears and groans, my child was born.
I cried with relief, and slept content cradling my baby.
In the morning, as Dawn's light pulled aside the curtains,
I hold aloft my child to the rays and recoil in horror.
My offspring, so loved the night before, is now a source of shame.
Its limbs were deformed, its features missing or misshapen.
It gurgled monstrously, and reached for me.
Reluctantly, I pull it to my breast and cradle it. It is mine.
Excited knocking sends a panic through me.
Hastily, I lay my offspring in the cradle and cover it with a blanket.
Answering the door, I am greeted by well meaning friends.
Denying its existence, I retreat to where it's hid.
Weeks later, I decide to subject it to the public.
I pitied it, I cried over its body
Before I carried it outside and handed it over to them.
They huddled around it, brandishing their sharp knives.
I heard its screams,
And fought myself to keep from breaking them apart and ripping it from them.
Finally, they place its writhing, bloody body in my trembling, wet arms.
I race back into my home, weeping, apologizing to it,
And desperately attempting to bandage its wounds.
Dawn roused us from a painful and sore night,
And I lift my baby out of its cradle.
In the fresh light, she smiled at me.

Extra points to the person who can name the author of the poem this is semi-based on.