They aren’t your friends

You would think as an adult, I would realize people say things they don’t mean. People will call you a friend and implore you to reach out when times are good. But I keep learning that those flowery words in warm summer breezes mean little during the bite of winter. I call in tears, begging for a hand, pleading for help. Sliding down a ravine, grasping out and being met with air. 

“I have to finish baking”

“I wish I could help but …”

I hope my story sounds foreign. I hope the idea there is no hand thrust out in the dark desperate to grasp you is nothing but a disorienting nightmare. The experience makes you cold. Every time, I feel like a little bit more of me freezes over. I wonder what will give out first. My will or my humanity.