A room with no door

I was a room with no door. No key — not even a lock. No lock — not even a door. No door — anyone could enter. Squatters welcome. A body, but no home. A home for others, just not mine. Skin is the first boundary you have, and mine was extra stretchy. Soft, supple, sensitive. Supposedly, this is genetic. Born with skin never thick enough.

I was a creature …