The god of transitions

Barefooted Janus sees you coming. She's a stealthy mover, sheathed in black, negotiating graffiti-strewn turquoise streets.

She sees you and your heart lacquered up like so many layers of lipgloss, dripping hallelujahs and hey girlzzzz. Shimmering like the incandescent light of a bubble, bubblegum pink, lemon fizz yellow.

And Janus sees you going.

She sees you, bending from your spine like a comb binding, folding yourself in two to protect what is left inside. And what is that? Just pieces now, scraps of organs stretched too far and shredded thin. Red ribbons.

The god of transitions doesn't care what happened in between. She wasn't looking.