Boxes

Should this be a poem or prose poetry? Any other edits? Here's both a prosetry and a poetry version:

Boxes

I am in a box.
It is a nice box, I think, looking around:
There are candles in one corner,
a challah;
there’s a Torah over there,
next to a bookshelf with ancient,
aging, fraying books;
Someone is cooking chicken soup on the other side,
and nearby, a man with tassels hanging from his shirt
is swaying over a prayerbook, chanting,
while a little girl spins a dreidl
by his feet.

Then another box appears around me,
its walls closing in
The praying man is on the other side
though the little girl is still here
now scrawling out a sign that says
“No Boys Allowed”
and pasting it to a wall.
Near her is a shelf with Cosmo, Good Housekeeping, American Girl magazines
racks and racks of dresses and tight jeans and jewelry and make-up,
and everything is pink
(I hate the color pink.)

Then another box surrounds me,
its walls slamming down;
It cuts off all the dresses and the pink,
which is nice,
But space is getting tight now.
This box has rainbow walls;
In one corner,
women with short haircuts and baggy jeans
are shouting about marriage rights,
waving protest signs.
In another, two girls are making out
so I look away.

Then, slam, a box — I’m a teenager.
Slam, a box — I’m white.
Slam, I’m the oldest child,
Slam, I’m a nerd.
Slam, I’m a brunette.
Slam.
Slam.
Slam.

Slam,
I am alone
in a tiny,
dark
room, curled
into a ball
so I can
just barely fit
within the
walls
of thousands,
millions,
of boxes.

......................................................................................................................................................................

Boxes

I am in a box. It is a nice box, I think, looking around: there are candles in one corner, a challah; there’s a Torah over there, next to a bookshelf with ancient, aging, fraying books. Someone is cooking chicken soup on the other side, and nearby, a man with tassels hanging from his shirt is swaying over a prayerbook, chanting, while a little girl spins a dreidl by his feet.

Then another box appears around me, its walls closing in. The praying man is on the other side, though the little girl is still here, now scrawling out a sign that says “No Boys Allowed” and pasting it to a wall. Near her is a shelf with Cosmo, Good Housekeeping, American Girl magazines, racks and racks of dresses and tight jeans and jewelry and make-up, and everything is pink. (I hate the color pink.)

Then another box surrounds me, its walls slamming down: it cuts off all the dresses and the pink, which is nice, but space is getting tight now. This box has rainbow walls; in one corner, women with short haircuts and baggy jeans are shouting about marriage rights, waving protest signs. In another, two girls are making out, so I look away.

Then, slam, a box — I’m a teenager. Slam, a box — I’m white. Slam, I’m the oldest child. Slam, I’m a nerd. Slam, I’m a brunette. Slam. Slam. Slam.

Slam,
I am alone
in a tiny,
dark
room, curled
into a ball
so I can
just barely fit
within the
walls
of thousands,
millions,
of boxes.