To look at suicide, the bleakest of places.
To sense that desperation, when every door is shut.
How could I not want to rescue and save
As I myself, somewhere in the recesses wanted to be.
And although you couldn't save me, you did -
It was the chink in the door,
The tiny sliver of light that tentatively glimmered
In the crushing darkness and I could just see it,
When I looked hard enough, and that,
That slither of light and hope tipped the balance
And I fought to hold onto the tiny possibility that maybe,
Just maybe it would be okay, I would breathe another day.
And in that selfish, all consuming space,
Looking at all the shut doors
In the blackness, the distant glow of that tiny light
Saved me.' Anon