Been gone more days this year than I have been home,
Trading friends for trips to the coast,
This hotel room feels more, like a tomb.

Been gone more days this year than I have been home,
Trading friends for trips to the coast,
This hotel room feels more, like a tomb.

It's not gossip if it's the truth,
I'm sick of always writing songs,
For you to slit your wrists to.

So which is it: the boy who writes the songs,
Or the boy who's in them?
Who's the girl? Is this truth,
Or is he writing fiction?

Hand over my heart, gun to my head,
I swear to God I'm through with this,
I am the worst, liar I know.

It's not gossip if it's the truth,
I'm sick of always writing songs,
For you to slit your wrists to.

So which is it: the boy who writes the songs,
Or the boy who's in them?
Who's the girl? Is this truth,
Or is he writing fiction?
Which is it: the boy who writes the songs,
Or the boy who's in them?
Who's the girl? Is this truth,
Or is he writing fiction?

(So which is it?)
So which is it? Which is it? (So which is it?)
(So which is it?)
So which is it? Which is it? (So which is it?)
(So which is it?)
So which is it? Which is it? (So which is it?)
(So which is it?)
So which is it? Which is it?

Who's the girl? Is this truth,
Or is he writing fiction?
Which is it: the boy who writes the songs,
Or the boy who's in them?
Who's the girl? Is this truth,
Or is he writing fiction?

Been gone more days this year than I have been home
Been gone more days this year than I have been home