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
