Give Me A Script to Write

I am not soft bass beats.
I am not your dark, silent screen.
I am not fire dying with ignition.
I am not your indie movie.
I am not quiet conversations, bodies sunken halfway underwater. I am not moon meeting sea- fingerbeds burnt, rotten open by the unceasing lifeline of a cigarette. I am not the folk song playing softly on the background, much more the waves of the tsunami waiting to disrupt your eyes from staring into mine.
I am not your indie movie.
I am not your Celestina; I am not the mother of 9 children, the hooker who made love to her husband, her happily ever after, her dungeon for thirteen years, only to get half her face in dissection from broken vodka bottles.
I am not your indie movie.
I am not the one you seek, mountains and mountains over; I am not the plane ticket you strongly hold on to after years of saving up, I am not the motor boat that flew your hair to the sky and made you feel alive, the skiing trip that made you offer yourself to the cold, freezing wind.
I am not your indie movie.
In our little, short episode, there is no director. There are no cast. No volunteers. No creatives. No scenic views. No dialogues. 
I am not quality. I am not little money for integrity. I am not your principle. I am not your belief. I am not skins and bones, hair tangled, pressed unto my face, screaming in passion, chest in rise and in fall, in collision with the soft smile you make from the sheets and pillows of our dreams and reality. I am not inception.
In our little, short episode, there is no director. No cast. No volunteers. No creatives. No scenic views. No dialogues. Because I am not your indie movie.
I am not soft bass beats.
I am not your silent, dark screen.
I am not fire dying with ignition.
I am not your indie movie.
But God, how I wish to be.
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