My skeleton keeps my shape. He helps keep me afloat. I used to cross enemy lines, but now I catch minds. You might think I'm my bouncy cousin, but I'm more like the stronger version.

I control a box from across the room, Yet I’m always missing when you actually need me.

I’m forged for battle, yet fit in one hand, Shorter than swords that in sunlight stand. I’m meant for the thrust, not cleaving wide, Worn at the belt or hidden inside. Not made for work, nor carving bread, I serve where silence and closeness tread. What am I?

A bunch of impaled horses Bobbing up and down Centrifugal forces One word that's a noun

I'm a twisted little thing, found in places where styling is everything. I hold and fold styles with an air of mystery.