I heard you were working in a dungeon 
and you were learning how to tell the [bad word] 
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