You love him but sometimes it's hard to look at him, the beauty that first attracted you a mirror of his parents' ugliness. They didn't pay for the sweetness in his eyes but they did pay for their deep blue. When you touch his skin... Sometimes you look at him and see what his parents tried to build. Every old, stupid awfulness of blood and race inflicted on him before his conception. He never had a chance to be free of that.
He had already been trying for years when you first met him. With good deeds. Kindness. A dull razor. Maybe he'd have gone further without you.
You hate that you'd like to believe that. You do and maybe it's true. When you think about who he really is, what he made of himself in every way that matters, what he sees in your eyes is better than a razor. It's better than a razor, too, what he sees in your eyes when you can't avoid seeing in him what his parents sought.
And when he says something that could be simply human imperfection — something that need not be the flowering of a grotesque seed planted deep in his flesh — but you can't avoid stepping away from him, he doesn't hate you but you do, and the love and self-loathing on his face are sharp enough for you to cut yourself with.
(Originally posted on my blog.)