The Republic Of Plastic

Word has it,

scientists in the Amazon

have discovered a fungus

that feeds on plastic

and doesn’t even steal our oxygen.

And all I could think of was —

what about the plastic

that doesn’t come in shapes,

that doesn’t obey geometry,

that slithers into living rooms

and boardrooms

and bloodstream ideologies?

What about the plastic

that talks, that teaches, that tricks,

that slips into your spine

without a sound

and slowly replaces it

with a straw?

The kind of plastic

that wears empathy like foundation,

only to wash it off

before bed.

The kind that’s contagious —

not through touch,

but through tasteless simplicity.

That turns your ribs into rubber,

your convictions into captions,

your rage into relatability.

The kind that doesn’t announce itself,

but before you know it —

you’re hollowed out,

your breath replaced by gasps

from a skeleton

that forgot it was ever alive.

You’ve turned into a reflection.

A rear-view mirror.

A regretable version

of what you could’ve been.

Plastic people

living plastic lives —

lives that look curated

but collapse at the first gust of wind.

Dead long before the storm.

Survivors of aesthetic.

Plastic is convenient.

Because plastic never complains.

Plastic doesn’t say “no.”

Plastic doesn't bleed.

It just smiles.

And shrinks.

And serves.

Plastic speaks

in politically correct syllables

and curated ideas of justice.

It cries for Palestine and Kashmir

in the same sentence

because crying is empathy

because crying is currency

and selective empathy is fashionable.

Plastic sells haute couture

because blood stains,

and rage wrinkles,

but plastic?

Plastic is palatable.

Plastic preaches gender equality

while jerking off to neutrality’s manifesto,

chanting “gender is a construct!” —

never pausing to ask:

if gender’s a myth,

is equality not fiction too?

But plastic doesn’t ask.

Plastic doesn’t think.

Plastic sells.

But plastic doesn’t ask.

Plastic doesn’t think.

Plastic sells.

And plastic sells best

when it forgets how to feel.

Plastic loves art

like it loves vaginas —

good to look at,

hollow inside.

Because the flesh stinks.

But plastic?

Plastic is palatable.

Plastic gets funding.

Plastic wears black

and says “justice”

as long as it fits

the grant deadline.

Plastic likes poetry

as long as it doesn’t bleed.

It likes rebellion

as long as it rhymes.

It likes politics

as long as it shifts

with the wind.

Because conviction is expensive.

And plastic?

Plastic promises affordability.

Plastic doesn’t fight.

It flatters.

Plastic doesn’t stand.

It bends.

Plastic doesn’t speak truth.

It lip-syncs.

But where the fuck is the fungus

that feeds off the faceless plastic?

Where is the rot

we need so badly

to devour these soft-spoken cowards

with curated breath

and recycled grief?

Where’s the extinction

for this generation

of hollow echoes

selling validation

in biodegradable packaging?

Let it come.

Let it chew through the ribcage

of polite pretenders.

Let it end

this plague of curated humans

before we forget

what a spine used to feel like.

Let it rot the roots,

not just the fruit.

Because even if flesh doesn’t return, 

honesty will.

And when it does,

may it find no one left

to plastic-wrap the truth.