Migraine of a Razor Blade Grave

I fell into a pit, dirty grave, lined entirely with razor blades, that should sting when they slice my newspaper skin that bleeds only grey, but pain, there is none, never have I felt so numb and never have I thought so much as when I was lain in a rotted blank sap and rusted sharp metal. As they filled up my grave with dead leaves and stale bubblegum all I did was stare, at the stars and the moon, and I wondered why, everyone always saw them as companions in the night sky, when all of their songs were sung millions of miles apart and I pondered why no one else ever questioned the beat of their own heart and why only my head is the one who rains in red. And when my tomb was almost closed, my thoughts were disrupted, out rang screams, that sounded like mine but my mouth was stuck shut. As the hole sealed and smothered my lungs, the screams, they crescendoed, they carried on even when my conscious was all but gone its earsplitting screech went beyond what was left and stayed. An eternity, it rings, a migraine for my soul that sits in its grave.