Every night Pixy climbs into her bed on the sofa and holds herself tight so that she doesn't fall apart in pieces.
Every night Pixy tries to cry quietly, so that no one else is disturbed.
Her protruding breast bones heave with the things which threaten to consume her, because they have no outlet.
And every morning, as if some practical joker thought it'd be hilarious to tamper about with her, Pixy wakes up to find that her heart is whole again.
Like Prometheus, whose innards grow back every day for the vultures to tare out over and over for an eternity's sentence imposed by the angered Gods, Pixy's heart is ready to be broken every morning again and again and again.