A text sits half-typed on the screen, the reply already sharper than the message that earned it, your thumb hovering over send. You were born with Mars in your third house, the house of the talking mind and the close streets it runs every day, so your thinking comes armed. Sentences leave you with an edge on them. Your wit lands clean when you aim it, and it draws blood now and then when you did not. The voice on the phone with a sibling, the comeback already loaded before the other person finishes, the day spent re-litigating a remark from breakfast: that quick blade is yours. Choose the disagreements that carry weight and let the small ones blow past like weather. Put the sharpness on the page, where you can sleep on it and revise it before it reaches a face. A pointed mind that knows when to stay sheathed is a rare instrument. One that answers every provocation is worn out by lunch and still spoiling for more.