But a sword can cut off your face, whereas words can only be tattooed onto it. A sword can be plunged into a stone for a nascent king to remove. Words can be written on the stone to warn the king that what he is doing is impossible to mere flesh, and therefore he should perhaps wonder about his bones and his meaning and his poise. A sword is metal through and through, while words lack any mettle whatsoever. A sword carries with it a history. Words were born yesterday and are already looking old beyond their years. A sword can be sharpened until merely a brief glimpse of it under bright white light can maim the eyes and blind bind blindside the body, both the body of water and the body politic. A word (two of a word, three of a word, four, five, six and seven) is blunted through any kind of misuse, or some under or much over. You cannot misuse a sword. You cannot overuse a sword. Or underuse it. A length of metal, honed to death, is pure in purpose. You are also pure in purpose. You are sexually honed to death. You are a flexing muscle, trapped in spasm. You are a body on ice and electric, gifted in scratches. You are a sublimated flesh wound. You are a sublime being. This is medicinal punctuation. Be safe. Open wide so I can see. Swallow your word without chewing, so I can appreciate the movement of your throat. Feel better and let’s celebrate by tearing at the crust, devouring syllables, slavering.