Say it isn’t broken. A muscle can’t really break at all. It can tear, torque, atrophy. It can be stripped of skin, cleaved from bone.
If it is exposed, palpitating, slick with blood, close your eyes and imagine it belongs to someone else. Grab someone, anyone and tell them, “you’ve dropped something. Your heart. It looks injured.” Then run as fast as you can.
Rename the fucking thing. Call it memory or fear. Take a big roll of duct tape and wrap the mess of it into a tight silver lump. Put it on your bookshelf. If anyone asks, you can tell them some vague story about a dog you once had, a dog that loved duct tape, loved that odd shaped orb of it. It is easy enough to imagine. Who hasn’t had such a dog?
Forget about it all together. Really, who cares if your heart is broken? It caused you nothing but trouble to begin with. Remember you’re Indian; your heart was stolen long ago. Hang the medicine pouch around your neck. Cover the hollow of your chest with herbs. When you miss the pulsation of your own heartbeat, hum the sound of its vanishing. Those white folks won’t even notice. Something so insignificant as nostalgia shouldn’t bother anyone at all.