[Verse 1]
The sky looks clean from a distance,
but the rivers are learning to lie.
We keep the labels facing forward,
we keep our questions dry.
There’s comfort in a polished floor,
a room that doesn’t age—
but the dust still knows the story,
even if we skip the page.
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[Verse 2]
We trade a little quiet
for the hum of something near,
call it progress, call it forward—
call it anything but fear.
We’ve built our days from plastics,
from convenience we can’t see.
And we wear the weight so slowly
that it starts to feel like peace.
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[Chorus]
There’s plastic in the marrow—
not a wound, not a sin.
Just a slow and silent settling
of the things we let begin.
Not enough to call it crisis,
not so loud we feel it go—
but we’re softer than we used to be,
and deeper down, we know.
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[Verse 3]
There are poisons made for profit,
but they sell them with a smile.
A little gloss, a little fragrance,
and we trust it for a while.
It’s not evil, it’s not violent—
it just asks us not to mind.
And the damage is so patient,
it pretends that it’s been kind.
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[Chorus]
There’s plastic in the marrow—
in the systems we don’t name.
In the way we call it normal
when the cost still feels the same.
It won’t show up on the x-rays,
but it’s resting in the bone.
And it teaches us to settle
for a life we don’t own.
⸻
[Bridge]
No bombs, no fire, no famine—
just a subtle shift in tone.
Just the shrinking of a future
we don’t mention on the phone.
It’s not that we don’t notice—
we just learned to look away.
To keep living like the structure
wasn’t made to break this way.
⸻
[Final Chorus]
There’s plastic in the marrow—
it’s the cost of staying blind.
Not a punishment, but presence—
not a curse, but what we find.
It won’t kill us all at once,
but it will take what makes us whole.
There’s plastic in the marrow now—
and we’re calling it control.
paleAtlas
