Broken glass bottles, scattered about the floor. Their reflection of the artificial, fake light that looms above is somehow nostalgic. How it outlines and illuminates the crimson stains that cover and decorate the tiles of the flooring. Bleach white against blood is such an odd combination, yet it's so reminiscent.
It's so familiar, the glass shards that dig into your flesh remind you of what once was. A piece of you forgotten. The shards of transparency have never reflected you better. They glimmer and shine, sticking and poking out from your skin like stars.
Only fools would be stupid enough to try and make a constellation out of your shards. These broken bottles remain blankly labeled for a reason. You allow them to shine, the blood only further outlines their beauty, taking home in your wounds.
It's not even that it's painful. It just feels right.