You can cry in the shower.

You can cry because the indigo melon thing tastes sour, but more than the acidic flavor, it reminds you of this one poem your therapist shared ages ago about puckering fruits and self-care and not indulging your sadness--but he is dead now so you indulge your sadness by eating the entire vegetable and crying.

You can cry by the dusty window.

You can cry while cleaning the windows.

You can cry over a steaming mug of sauced noodles and pretend, yet again, you're just seasoning the stew.

You can cry at midnight.

You can cry when you wake up because you sorta just don't want to deal with it anymore.

You can cry about the fact you want to go on an adventure, but the one you went on yesterday was really kinda ridiculous, wasn't it. Who calls buying vegetables an adventure? Getting groceries exciting?

You can cry about the fact you want to go on an adventure, but with no one to go with, it's not even worth it.

You can cry because that flower from the market boiled in water and steeped into a drink tastes heavenly so you never want to finish it.

You can cry because you do anyway and call it self-care.

You can cry by the sight of a flutterbee drifting past the sunny window, all pink wings and golden bum.

You can cry because you have no one to share this thought with.

You can do your best not to cry while imagining a choreographer teaching you a dance like a flutterbee is chasing your character and they are allergic--but still cry at the thought of how much an allergic bee bite would hurt.

Then you can practice realistic trips into pretend mud puddles like a stuntperson in their prime would do, and cry for real about how you're too afraid for your body to practice anywhere but onto the couch.

Then you can cry making a rag doll, because nothing else is helping.

Then you can cry while ripping off its face, because still, nothing is helping.