I heard you were working in a dungeon and you were learning how to tell the truth some people say fiction is boring but where does that leave you?
Sometimes I think that I made you up And that you only really live in my head Sometimes I think my imagination wants me dead
And I know that I should have never Let you up on my bed You left skeletons in the sheets and every book you read
it didn’t leave much room for me I didn’t have a place The story just got worse and worse I can’t believe I stayed
sleeping on the floor, knocking on your door to see if you were awake trying to decided between love and hate and what’’s real and what is fake I don’t know if I knew and I don’t know if I do and I don’t know how I feel about you