There are vultures lurking under our ficus tree. Hunchbacked and bulbous— beady eyes glare at me. Disguised in crimson sundresses and ombréd hair, their gaudy shades of gold, glint in hot metallic. I can't scrub away the shadows. My stench of wound and shine of scar is pink and fresh. The committee waits with painted lip and hooked beak. Feathered egos plunge bald heads neck-deep to gorge on insecurity.