I would crack it open over the sink. I would split first, the stiff, waxy skin then the inner membrane, papery and white and fleshy and reveal a thousand rubies, nestled in their pulp. And as my hands glossed, sticky and scarlet, I would press my index finger to the center of my tongue and **** the sharp juice with such ardency that you would become the pink in my spit and the thick in my mouth. I would take careful notice not to lose a single jewel, but to fully consume. I would not mind your seeds lodged between my molars. Perhaps I would even keep them there as long as I could because you are my favorite flavor. And perhaps after your juice has spilled and painted maps on my arms and dripped from my elbows, I would piece the shell back together, tuck it in your chest behind your ribs, and close you up. And perhaps then, when I had licked its walls clean when I had emptied its insides, then there would be room for me.