#wait does it count as freeverse if it's a prose poem?

[insteadoflight]

broken glass

is on the floor in the kitchen, so please wear 

this room is fucking freezing. the windows don’t work right, don’t keep out the chill. my fingers are ice, dusted with flour, and there are cold hands gripping my shoulders. 

five ten twenty five minutes ago i was shooting up happy and now i’m falling down sad, crashing through clouds and wispy hands of smoke hoping to stop me from smashing into the dirt below and 

s  h   a     t       t      e     r   i  n  g

music plays on the radio and guitar chords are an afterimage 

and in five ten twenty five minutes i will be sitting empty, cracked glass on the floor. 

shoes and someone get the vacuum or your feet’ll be cut.