Scarlet lips and Silver tongue, so easy to Believe

I'm looking for my voice.
So far it's pretty bland. But every once in awhile I start to hear it. It just needs more Tabasco, or even just salt. (see don't you like how I jump back and forth between metaphor, I can't even commit to three sentences)
But I've been reading a lot of Writer's Digest lately and it (as well as Bird by Bird) suggest having others read your work and give feed back.
So this is me taking a big risk and putting something out there that I would usually hide. Because I trust you (the three or so of you who look at this). My only request is that you give me feed back. Real feedback, none of this "it was good" or "I read it". That isn't helpful and quite frankly is probably a lie. So I'm going to try this, I'm going to post a little part of one of the billions of things bouncing around my brain and computer. I know I will never be a McEwan, but here's to getting better.

Here's to wanting your honesty, honestly.
...

Morrow wiped the fog from the mirror and leaned in. His damp hair hung in his eyes and his young face looked tired, even though he’d been passed out for the last two days. The long cut under his eye was still red and inflamed, although becoming more and more scar-like every day.

            “Are you sure it was an overdose?” he called out to his friend as he discovered a greenish-purple bruise upon shaving.

            “Yeah, you were still semi-conscious when I found you. Why?”

            “I’m all bruised,” Morrow called back, now turning in front of the mirror noticing bruises along his ribs and side, even the spot on his back above where his kidney would be.

            “That’s from the fight the night before you overdosed. Remember? That official seeming alleyway boxing ring?”

            “Someone gave me a kidney shot,” he said incredulously, still fastening his jeans as he walked across the living room to the kitchen, “And I don’t appreciate the sarcasm, Martin.” He grabbed a pair of scissors and reentered the bathroom.

            “Cutting yourself isn’t the answer!” Martin called without looking up from his magazine.

            “I’m not depressed Martin, I’m crazy. They’re different,” Morrow said nonchalantly as he began cutting random bits of hair.

            “You’re not crazy. Well, you are crazy, but unfortunately for me you are not medically diagnosable as insane—”

            The scissors fell into the sink with a loud clang. Morrow gripped the porcelain edges. His eyes closed too tight. The white walls around him shook and tilted as the nurse approached him with the syringe. Restraints held him flat to the bed.

            “Morrow?” Martin’s concerned voice penetrated the memory and pulled Morrow back into the reality of his brick-walled apartment. “Are you okay?”

            “I hate hospitals.”

            “You’ve mentioned that. But you’ve never told me why.”

            “And I won’t.” Morrow rubbed his eyes beneath the thick rimmed glasses before returning to the random massacre of his hair.

            “You look ridiculous,” Martin said, moving back toward the living room.

            “I’m not done yet!” Morrow trimmed a bit more and pulled on a t-shirt, careful to mess up his hair as much as possible.  

            “You look like hell,” Martin announced, as Morrow strolled into the room.

            “I’m stunning. I know it, you know it, everyone I pass on the street will know it in a minute; I don’t know why we even play this game Martin. Now, I feel like I haven’t eaten in two days, let’s go.”