Leather leggings

That's the first thing you want us to see, right?

Fake leather leggings, to go with your punk attitude.  Buddy Holly glasses, to show you're indie.  An eighties, one-shoulder barred sweatshirt under which you wear black.  Just black.  You know, because you're retro and chic like that.

You started out this way in high school--parents were good people, made decent money, upper-middle class.  Mom stayed at home.  Dad worked, a lawyer.  Brothers and sisters all went to college before you did.  You got good grades, made it top of your grade.  But there was something wrong, something missing.

Excitement.  That's what it was, excitement was missing.  "I'll pick up a guitar," you thought, "learn a few songs."  Punk was your thing, but no one expected it.  That is, until you dyed your hair black, and picked up a few pairs of leather leggings.

Now you stand there, I sit here.  I drink my drink, you stare at the band.  You wish you were them today.  Your legs were made for the stage.  You want the thrill, but it's not your turn.  Our ears ring in tune as  I see through you.

I wish I could tell you to stop being a collage.  I wish I could tell you to just break out of yourself and find the one thing you love.  Perhaps you've found it, but you're so uncomfortable even in your second skin.  I can only imagine what's going on in your own.

So I sit there, ignore you.  I bob my head, tap my foot.  Out of the corner of my eye, you do nothing.  Not a move, not a tap, not a bob, not a snap.  Each edge of your pastiche pulls you so hard, you can't budge.  I wish for a blink, a laugh, a cheer.  Anything.  I wish you didn't have to set yourself in stone to make yourself welcome.  Feel at home, please.  Feel the music.

"Dance!" is all I can think.  "Dance, for the love of God.  Dance!"