What is my sword?

My sword is beautiful.
The sharp edges, the sturdy blade, the weighted handle…
Each piece is meticulously crafted to ensure the most striking visuals
And the finest glimmer as it slices the air.
My sword is refined.
The blade is sharp enough to slice a boulder,
Sturdy enough to block any weapon.
A marvel of craftsmanship, it’s lasted years without chipping or denting.
My sword is feared.
Enemies flee from the shine of the pommel alone.
They shiver with fear when they see the wicked edge poised to attack.
Tales of its path of slaughter are told around campfires, send a chill down spines.
My sword is a weapon.
It rends flesh like butter.
It carves through armor and stone alike.
It destroys any who stand in my way, along with anyone behind them.
My sword is a symbol.
An icon of peace and honor.
Any who gaze upon it know that as long as they stand beside me, they are safe.
To witness its shimmer is to know tranquility.
My sword is a blessing.
With it, I can protect who I love.
I can drive away those who’d do me harm.
I serve my house and my lord to my utmost ability.
My sword is a curse.
While I hold it, I am locked into a life of servitude.
Never finished, never out of poor souls to slaughter.
No matter how tired I become, it forces me to press onward.
My sword is myself.
For every time I end someone,
I lose a little bit of myself,
Until I become dull and lifeless.